


Glow, Chrysó Mou

by bluestarwitch



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Archery, Bad Puns, Bottom Louis, Fluff and Humor, Harry is Dionysus, Louis is Apollo, M/M, References to Depression, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22426540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestarwitch/pseuds/bluestarwitch
Summary: The sun is the one who braves darkness the most.The sun isn't the one who never gets tired.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 33
Kudos: 243
Collections: Bottom Louis Fic Fest 2019





	Glow, Chrysó Mou

**Author's Note:**

> [Translation into Spanish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738287) by [BLouBLou_28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BLouBLou_28/pseuds/BLouBLou_28)
> 
> Greek terms used in the story:  
> Chrysó Mou - My Golden One  
> Mikrí mou agápi - My little love  
> Agápi mou - My love  
> Ilie mou - My sun
> 
> TW: There are depression themes and a breakdown, so if that's something you want to avoid, please skip to the next scene. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

**Glow, Chrysó Mou**

_I would shun the light, share in evenings cool and quiet_

_Who would trade that hum of night_

_For sunlight, sunlight, sunlight_

Louis watches, sat on his blindingly golden chariot, as Nova rides out her own chariot in the distance, dragging the Moon behind her. He sighs, guiding his horses downwards and letting the night take over.

It’s been a rough day. It’s been a rough week. Not like anything seriously bad happened. It was the same slow, boring ride through the sky, nothing but his horses (who sadly can’t talk with him) to keep him company. But he spent a lot of time inside his head; the place is no better than Tartarus and his thoughts are worse than monsters.

It’s weirdly tiring, being stuck in this one head all the time. He really looks forward to sleep. And food.

He lands the chariot, eats and settles in bed without much action.

People think being a god makes everything easier. Either they are wrong, or Louis is an embarrassingly pathetic god because _he can’t even sleep when he wants to_.

With a whiny dry sob, he turns to lay on his side. Grabs a pillow to cuddle it and nuzzles his face against the soft fabric.

He didn’t ask for it. All this was bestowed upon him. He sometimes wishes he was a mortal, so at least his misery would have an expiry date (the same date as his life’s, he’s sure) but alas.

He is Apollo. The Greek god of the Sun, prophecy and truth, diseases and herbs, dance and music and poetry. Son of Zeus, the king of the gods. He’s been alive for thousands of years and would be until his people completely forget about him. Young men look — okay fine, _looked_ — up to him as their role model and in its peak days, his cult was all over the world.

And it’s all and well, he’s still well respected and everything. But there’s his twin sister, Artemis, who goes by Nova these days. She’s, you know what they call them, the better sibling.

Louis always thinks she got the cooler part of the deal — she’s the goddess of the Moon and the hunt, the wilderness and chastity. She’s smart, gorgeous and a complete badass. Louis has, very naturally, always been compared to her. He loves her and tries not to let him bother him, but really, it does. Especially when she’s out there beating him in every aspect and being a constant reminder that Louis’ not good enough.

But he’s not condemning her in any way, let’s make this clear. Maybe he really isn’t up to par.

So, every day, he toils to be better than he was the day before. But when all he gets to do is fly a chariot for the better part of the day so high up in the sky that even the clouds don’t float there, come home to eat foods he’s already had 28,379,424,692 times, play some tunes on his lyre or write some ballads then go to sleep and wake up the next day only to repeat it all over again—

Moral of the story, his eternal life is boring, and he feels worthless.

Well, not every day of every month (Ha! At least he’s retained his humour). This week, he’s been cruelly triggered by one of his father’s ridiculous rituals — family gatherings.

Louis hates them. Loathes them. Detests them.

Honestly, Louis would rather spend the day in Uncle Hades’ realm, playing with Cerberus. It’s a day full of people gushing over Nova’s new adventure with the hunt, Ares’ little joke that turned into a civil war in some country or how Aphrodite blessed her daughter, some ‘model’ by the name of Kylie Jenner, with a baby at the age of 20. There are various little ‘competitions’ organised too, mainly for bragging rights. Every month, without fail, Louis and Nova make it till the grand finale of the archery competition (because, you know, they both are the god and goddess of archery) and every month, without fail, Louis fails. It’s come to the point where no-one is even surprised.

All this wouldn’t be that bad (who’s he kidding, he gets depressed for a good week after every loss) only if that drunkard Harry wasn’t there to pester him all day long.

Louis groans into his pillow at the mere thought of him (he also blushes, but we don’t talk about that).

He’s ever-present and perpetually annoying, Harry (Dionysus, actually. Don’t ask him why he chose such an awfully common name, he has no idea). The boy is simply chaotic. Gets drunk and parties all the time. Louis would mock him by saying he doesn’t have anything better to do, but he literally doesn’t. He’s the god of wine and wine-making, fertility, theatre, the lot. Surprisingly fit for someone who enjoys more wine than his body weight, every single day.

Ungh! He should not be thinking those things. For a moment, Louis buries his face into the pillow to cut off his brain’s oxygen supply as a punishment. He hates his brain and he hates Harry.

He follows him everywhere, commenting on little habits Louis didn’t knew he had, making stupid jokes and telling Louis about his experiences with mortals that Louis has absolutely no interest in. It’s been centuries of invitations to stupid parties and centuries of denials, yet there’s no end in sight. Louis is also very, very aware of the motives of younger god and that just makes him wish Harry was still wandering around the world spreading his crazy cult like he did all those millenniums ago.

If it were up to him, Louis would avoid him like the mortals tried to avoid the Black Death. But similarly, it would be to no avail. Their lord father insists to have family get-togethers almost every month, because eternity is a long time to kill and he believes these meet-ups strengthen his family’s bonds.

By Zeus, if it were up to him, Louis would disappear somewhere in his bedsheets and never encounter anyone else ever again. But it’s not possible with him being, you know, the Sun.

He groans louder.

Where did that pun even come from? He hates those. Harry is corrupting influence and he hates him. His brain is a traitor and he hates it too.

He needs to sleep. Yes. He’s gonna sleep. Hypnos, here he comes.

So that’s the godly life Louis lives. Waking up to wake up the world, pulling a ball of fire behind his chariot to nurture life (ironic, since he’s not very fond of his own) for more or less twelve hours, coming back to home to wait until he must do it all over again.

That’s... literally all he does.

Because you see, as per their nature, human kind has moved on. Modern day healers, or ‘doctors’ as they fancily call themselves, don’t take a minute to remember the god of medicine and ask for his guidance before treating a patient. He hasn’t heard a paean praising the gods in quite a while (though he heard someone wrote a song about popcorn. Where is humanity even headed?) and he’s seriously considering giving up on musical artists. These days, someone’s fate can be figured out using ‘tarot cards’. Where’s the fun in puny little cards with pretentious drawings on them? He personally preferred the oracles of Delphi or the Groove of Dodona or the Sibyls. 

Humans don’t need gods of Louis’ kind anymore. They remember them, sure, but as myths and legends. Their beliefs have changed, they don’t call on them for help like they used to in the good ol’ times.

That does not mean gods have stopped looking after them, though. They’ve tried their best to adapt themselves to the changes in the mortal world (Zeus’ strict orders, obviously). They go under cover, hiding their true selves behind the Mist, and mingle with humans. Sometimes it’s just a little help with someone’s writer’s block, sometimes things get a little too serious and another demigod is born.

Anyway, the point is, the gods are still involved in mortal lives. Hermes even brought them all ‘tablets’ which are like rectangular metallic technological thingies that help them keep an eye on their subjects. Louis, however, is quite fed up with people. He doesn’t bother to search for more of them to interact with. He’s doing just fine holed up in his home with his lyre and his piano, writing and making pointless melodies.

And it’s fine, you know, it’s not always that bad. The desolation is ever-present but it’s not always cripplingly strong. It’s quiet, mostly, letting Louis go on with his days, sometimes even allowing him to go as far as not being sad, but never far enough that he can escape it. He has triggers, lots of triggers, and he would like not to have any. The thought itself is a trigger.

Completely indifferent to Louis’ dull gloom, time goes on. And it brings to Louis yet another family get-together.

Holy Trigger Supreme.

This time it’s been arranged on the quiet little islet of Gavdos in the motherland. Because of course it is, they all keep coming back there.

Nothing special happened between the last get-together and this one. Louis had a tense week right after, but that’s typical, so.

This time, Louis chooses to take a boat to reach the islet. Yes, he’s stalling. No, he doesn’t care.

As if to prepare him for what’s to come, he finds Iris accompanying him on the little boat. He groans mentally as he acknowledges her with a smile and a nod.

Iris is the goddess of the rainbow and the gods’ messenger, but mostly Hera’s handmaid. She is a very pretty girl, her face clear and bright like the sky after rain, and she has a sweet and likeable personality to go with it. She’s wearing a light blue, flowy dress which goes quite well with her aura and has a small purse slung across her body. If Louis squints and focuses hard enough, he can see her wings, which have all the rainbow colours swirling around and blending together in a mesmerising pattern. The Mist hides them from the mortals though, as a mortal mind cannot comprehend anything magical without losing sanity. So, for the boatman’s own good, he can’t see Iris’ full beauty.

She smiles and nods back at him and thankfully doesn’t start a conversation. Louis guesses they’re in the same boat (pun very much intended, thank you). She might be dawdling too, since she could have flown directly to Gavdos. Being the old hag’s PA isn’t even on Louis’ least-favourite-jobs-in-the-world list. (Don’t _ever_ tell the Queen of the Olympus that Louis calls her a hag or the last thing he’d do before she comes for him would be stabbing every arrow of plague he has into your body with his own pretty hands.)

The deities sit opposite each other, looking out to the sea, but it’s like they have a silent agreement not to talk and enjoy the peaceful moments while they last. They last exactly half an hour before the boat noses up to the wooden dock.

Louis gets off first, helping Iris out next, then paying and thanking the boatman.

“So,” Iris begins as they trudge on. “You ready?”

Louis can see a big canopy-like structure — that no doubt was a creation of poor Hephaestus, which he won’t get enough credit for — a little down the beach. Louis can see his family mingling and enjoying themselves. He resists turning around and begging the boatman to come back and take him away.

“As ready as I can be.” Louis replies, which is basically equivalent to “NO!”

Iris smiles. Maybe she does understand. They walk down the beach, once again, in silence.

Louis has read and heard mortals saying how the air feels different in different places. It’s palpably true in Greece. The atmosphere is electric. He can almost sense Gaea’s deep, slow breaths as she sleeps. There’s an almighty ancient power thrumming beneath Louis’ feet. He can feel it seeping into his skin and fuse into his golden blood with every step he takes. It’s literally a breath of fresh air.

He feels alive. He doesn’t know how to feel about that because he’s supposed to feel alive all the time, isn’t he?

Hephaestus has, like always, done a great job. The main structure is rectangular, with a small extension toward the front. There are curtains blowing wherever the warm breeze takes them, there are lots and lots of tables, there are posh couches and there are various kinds of flowering plants. And of course, there are a number of classic Greek style statues dotted around (it just doesn’t _do_ it for Zeus without them). As they reach the front, Louis sees there’s a _whole bar_ in the left corner!

Louis doesn’t know whether to sob or whine or be mad about it. His body decides on a defeated sigh.

Iris gives his forearm a gentle squeeze. “See you around.”

“Yeah, you too.” He works up a smile for her and watches as she walks over to her mistress.

Hera, the Queen of the Gods, is sprawled on a vintage chaise lounger with all the authoritative air of a queen. She has, for the past many years, maintained the look of an elegant forty-year-old woman. It was very hard for her to give up her youthful beauty (she turned it into a proper decade long crisis up on Mount Olympus) but she finally traded it for her present look which she considered more apt and regal. So now she sits there looking like a wise old woman (which Louis doubts she is) adorned in delicate white silk, nymphs and satyrs and minor gods and goddesses flocking around her at her service.

She sets a lazy gaze on the newcomers and starts ordering Iris around as soon as she is within hearing distance.

Louis gives her a fake sweet smile. She returns a more fake smile.

He wanders inside, taking in everything he’ll have to bear with for the rest of the day.

To the right, there’s another group of people and the centre of the mob is Athena. Out of all the gods, if there’s someone who’s most in touch with the mortal world, it’s the grey-eyed goddess of wisdom and warfare. Knowledge has evolved to mean something different, but it’s knowledge nonetheless, and today’s human is smarter than ever, Louis hears. Athena dresses very modernly, in a pair of jeans and a blazer, which make her look like the sharpest professor you’ll find. She’s overall nice, if you ignore her hubris.

With Athena stands Louis’ dear twin sister, Nova. If Athena is a professor, Nova is her favourite student. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a crop top. She looks cool. She looks like comfort. The sight of her brings a genuine smile to his face. For now, he’s able to keep his dark thoughts from overshadowing the happy ones.

Louis’ father, the King of the gods and ruler of the skies, Zeus, sits at a table nearby. Almost every stereotype the mortals have constructed about him is true. He has long, curly, grey hair and a grey beard. His style went well with chitons in the olden days. But now, with his proper black suit (because he refused to wear anything less than the absolute top-notch) … let’s say they’ve all seen Zeus look less ridiculous. No one dares to say it out loud, though, because he’s still their —dare he say, _ridiculously_ — powerful Ruler and father of at least half of them.

With him sit his brother Poseidon — the god of the sea, Pan — the god of the wild, Hermes — the god of travellers and thieves, and Chiron — who’s a centaur so he’s not sitting. There are serious expressions painted on their faces. They’re like the wise old men of the family, except Hermes. He just a kiss-ass, but he’s fun. Again, nymphs and satyrs are bustling around the table, refilling empty glasses and serving fresh fruits to the gods.

His eyes travel left and find Aphrodite and Ares, who’ve claimed the best table in front of the bar. Ares is in his usual all black attire, his black sunglasses and his trademark scowl on. Aphrodite, on the other hand, is wearing a soft peach coloured dress that accentuates her perfect specimen of a female body. She has perfect eyes and perfect lips and perfect hair and perfect everything to go with it. She looks gorgeous and sensual, but that’s typical, and so is the swarm of men around her. She’s laughing and humouring them, but Ares does not seem bothered.

At the bar leans Hephaestus, the lame divine smith, technically still Aphrodite’s husband, watching the couple with almost no emotion left in his eyes. This is also nothing new; Louis wonders if it’s become more of a habit of his, staring at Aphrodite, even though he lost her and moved on ages ago. He feels a tad sorry for him, probably would even like him if not for his grumpy nature.

Also at the bar are three of the four wind gods, Boreas, Eurus and Notus, drinking from their pitchers colourful drinks. Louis guesses Zephyrus must be somewhere in the crowd around Aphrodite.

Out of everyone present, though, only one set of eyes catch his attention, only one set of eyes watching him as he watches everyone. Eyes green like ivy, deep like a forest, glinting like the most perfect emeralds. Eyes that lure you in with unbroken attention. Eyes that promise you the world. Eyes that are now smug because they know their power.

Louis looks away.

He strides over to Nova, who beams as soon as she sees him.

"Louis!" She cries, delighted, wasting no time in wrapping her arms around him. "How’s my baby brother been?"

"Give me a break." He rolls his eyes as they sway on their spot. Nova laughs, right into his ear, but instead of wincing he closes his eyes and squeezes her. Even after all this time, after everything, they’re close.

They pull back with matching fond smiles on their faces. Louis takes a moment to admire her curved eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, her eyes, the parts of her that resemble him. Then another moment to cherish the bits that are just her; her full lips stretched into a grin, her dark shiny hair that she doesn’t care for enough, the red scratches she must have gotten in the wild.

She’s amazing. And Louis loves her, he does. He just wishes he was something like amazing too. 

He clears his throat and shrugs. "I’ve been just the same. How have you been?"

Nova squeezes his shoulders once before letting go of him completely. "I’ve been the same, too, I guess."

They share a smile; there’s no pity in her eyes, Louis hopes there’s no angst in his. Only love.

Louis greets Athena, then, and the rest of the group. It’s a boring affair, filled with fake smiles and small talk.

"So, what’s new, Louis?" Nike pipes up, a satirical edge to her tone. She’s a little thing with a big mouth, the goddess of victory, and follows Nova everywhere. How poetic.

Louis stares at her for a second before turning to Nova. "This is new! When did you teach your puppy how to talk?"

If it was still the ancient times, this comment would’ve started a huge fight. But it’s not, so Nova just snickers and Nike merely swats at his chest. Athena sighs loudly, the signal that she’s fed up with them kids. It’s hard to entertain Athena for long periods of time, you know, with her big brain and all that.

"How about we get you a drink, then, Louis?" Nova claps her hands like that’s a wonderful idea. Louis doesn’t get the chance to explain her why it’s not before she’s pulling him to the bar.

Waiting for them on the other side of the bar is a curly head, a floral print top, a big smirk and green eyes that like to haunt Louis.

"Hello, lovely people!" Harry calls out to them, spreading his arms out. He always _has_ to be extra. “Welcome to the Divine Brews!”

If anyone is thinking, _did he seriously name a temporary bar?_ The answer is, he’s Harry.

Nova and Nike beam back at him, enamoured. Louis rolls his eyes, unmoved.

His gaze sticks to Harry’s bright face, though, watching him as he catches up with the girls and makes them drinks. He has this smile on, the smug lopsided one with the deep dimple that says he knows Louis is staring at him.

All of a sudden, Harry’s eyes are locked onto his. “What about you, Louis?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“How eloquent.” Nike quips.

Harry’s grin widens. He repeats himself before Louis has a chance to form a retort to Nike. “I was asking you what drink you’d like to have. Would you like a mojito? Margarita?”

Louis is actually contemplating the question when Harry places his hands on the counter and leans forward with a secretive gleam in his eyes. “Or can I give you a Blowjob?”

There’s a pause. Then Nova chokes on her drink as laughter bubbles out of her, Nike’s head is thrown back as she cackles and Harry… the bastard _winks at him._

For a good few seconds, Louis just stands there, rattled. The look on his face must have been bloody priceless, because his viper of a sister just about hollers with laughter when she sees it. Nike places a hand on his shoulder, trying to say something but no words come out between her giggles.

Harry reaches out to him but before he can touch him, Louis shakes himself out of it, shakes his head vigorously.

“How hard could it be for you to just give it a rest?” Louis says, a very much rhetorical question, and has already turned when Harry responds.

“I’m no quitter, my darling.”

Louis rolls his eyes again. Decides that he should check in with his father, if only to avoid Harry. 

Sometime later, Louis is leaning on one of the many wooden pillars, sipping on nectar and watching the Muses perform. He’s aware of Priapus leaning on the other side of the pillar, but it’s okay, because he’s not talking to him.

Oh yeah, Priapus.

He is a minor god of fertility, protector of gardens, livestock and… male genitals. He has an enormous, constant erection but he can’t sustain it when the time comes for coitus (courtesy of Hera). The doctors named the medical condition of a prolonged erection after him, and the gods teased him for decades. 

He’s also the son of Aphrodite and Harry. It’s not weird. Really.

As long as he’s quiet.

This quiet kind of company is what Louis likes best.

So naturally, it doesn’t last.

“You know, I really want to see them perform one of Queen’s songs. Or The Script. Even Little Mix will do, I’m not picky.”

He shoots Harry a blank look.

“They’re musical bands.” Harry explains, like Louis hadn’t known.

Priapus snorts with amusement. He’s also Harry’s personal kiss-ass.

“I live on the same planet, you know?” Louis deadpans. Not to mention he’s also the god of music.

Harry gives him a weird combination of a smile and a confused frown that should not possibly look cute, but he’s Harry, so. “Do you, now, my little Sun?”

Priapus snickers again.

“Would you shut it?” Louis snaps, glaring at him around the pillar.

“It’s hilarious!” The minor god argues.

“No, it’s not! It’s ridiculous.” Louis can hear Harry giggling. It only works to irk him more.

“Then he’s ridiculous _and_ hilarious.”

“ _No,_ he’s—”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Harry interrupts, barely controlling his grin. “While I really enjoy watching people passionately talk about me, I must stop you because—”

“Oh, sod off.” He mutters, turns and starts walking away. All he wishes for is a day of peace. Is it too much to ask, holy Fates?

Apparently, it is, because Harry follows him. By now, it’s so expected that Louis would’ve been surprised had he left him alone.

“I’m glad you know The Script. I think they’re pretty great. Do you like them? I’ve been meaning to ask you, you know, if you’d like to go to one of their concerts with me.”

Louis roams around aimlessly, trying to lose him, but Harry easily keeps up with him and rambles on, completely disregarding his attempts to get rid of him. Louis is in no mood to entertain him, so his responses are short and snappy. “No.”

Hardly anything deters the wine god, however. His voice is just as chirpy and conversational as ever as he tails after Louis, trying to convince him to attend the concert and talking about how wonderful the human world is and how much Louis is missing out.

He goes as far as to engage with other people so that while Harry’s busy charming them, he can fly the coop. Tough luck.

“C’mon, darling, you know you have all of my attention all the time.” Harry says when Louis complains about how hard it is to weed him out, following him again. 

“Oh please, Harry. I know for a fact that you’re flirting with at least ten different mortals right now as you vex me.”

Harry smirks. “It’s gone further in a few cases, Lou. Keep up.”

“You _disgust_ me.”

“I know,” He looks absolutely delighted. “It’s one of my favourite things to do. You’re unbelievably cute when you’re annoyed, did you know?”

Louis fights his blush, fights _hard_. But he’s not sure if he wins. He’s had too much of Harry, and he still needs to survive the rest of the day. He needs to get away.

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up. I’ll pay you.”

Harry laughs. “I’m not available for sale, darling. Though there are other ways to shut me up...”

His eyes suggestively and blatantly drop to Louis’ mouth. Louis stops his stomach mid-somersault.

“I know, but I don’t want to break your face in front of our whole family.”

Louis thinks of that as a strong enough comeback, but it does not have the desired effect, far from it. Harry laughs again.

“Oh my god, I love it when you’re cheeky too.”

The god of Sun feels his face burn. So he turns and walks away, grumbling prayers to Gaea to swallow either him or Harry up.

Late afternoon, they are all assembled in the game pit, the area Hephaestus specially designs to hold the competitions. They’ve completed a few events, like races, discuss and javelin throwing. Then Louis and Pan played some melodies for everyone. It’s never a competition between them, no one pits them against each other. Not after the last time, when Louis gave King Midas those donkey ears because he chose the satyr god over him. (He also flayed Marsyas alive when he challenged him. But he’s not dangerous, okay, no need to get scared.)

Vaguely, Louis is aware that it’s nice being feared, but he can’t focus on much but the most dreadful event of the day: the archery contest. The final is due to start in minutes and he finds himself in a situation not very different from the one a month ago, or the months before that.

He stands with his golden bow in his hand, his quiver strapped comfortably across his back and filled with some of his finest arrows. Fifty meter in front of him is the target, the offending wooden board painted yellow, red, blue, black and white, standing unflinching under Louis’ hard gaze.

To his left is Nova, humming a tune lowly as she checks the tension in her bow string. She’s calm as a cucumber, doesn’t look like she gives a damn at all. Maybe that’s confidence, the nonchalance that comes with winning all the time.

Louis looks away, shaking the jitters out of his hands. _Okay, calm down now._ He gives himself the same pep talk he does every time, though by now it’s statistically established that it’s no use. _It’s just a game, it’s just a game, it’s just a bloody game!_

A game he always loses.

Ares, playing their referee, signals them to start. Nova goes first. Raises her bow, sets her aim and shoots. Scores a 10. Amidst the applaud, only a hint of a smile passes over her face before she’s lowering her bow and nocking the next arrow.

Louis breathes deeply, in and out. Then he gets into position, aims for the centre and releases. The arrow buries itself in the outer yellow circle — 9. He breathes again.

With her next two shots, Nova nicks the maximum score of 30 for the set. Louis gets a 10 in and then another 9. The Moon goddess wins 2 set points.

Okay, it’s okay, there’s two more sets to go.

For the next set, Louis goes first. He shoots a 9. Nova steps up and scores a 9 too. Louis does not let himself get too excited. He gets a 9 again, and so does his sister. 18-18.

There’s a voice screaming ‘ _opportunity, opportunity!_ ’ in his mind. Louis is breathing more tension than air. He gulps, his palms sweating under the pressure. His next arrow scores an 8.

He exhales slowly, trying not to come off as too disheartened, specially when Nova gets a 10 again, and thus another 2 set points.

And thus another victory.

Just like that, it’s over. All the tension seeps out of Louis’ body, leaving it a dead weight that his mind struggles to keep upright. Everyone claps and Nova whoops and Louis laughs. It’s an ugly sound but his sister takes it and wraps him into a hug. Once again, he finds himself in the exact situation he was in a month ago.

“Good game, LouLou.” She grins at him as she pulls back.

“Yeah, congrats.” He musters up a smile for her, but it falls as soon as she turns away.

And oh, how pathetic he feels as he watches his family shuffle out of the pit, no one addressing him because they all ran out of words of solace for his dead duck a long time ago.

_So pitiable. He’s just so pitiable._

He’s quite on the useless side, he knew, but this has to be a new low. He couldn’t even play a full game. Nova made a bloody clean sweep on him.

_Such a sad excuse for the holy god of archery._

He gasps, forcing some air into his trembling body, as he rips the quiver away from his body and throws it aside. He tilts his head up and blinks, trying to force the frustrated tears and the golf ball in his throat into disappearing.

_A fiasco._

He swallows, clenches his jaw, fists his hands. Not now. Not here. Not again, please.

When he’s calmed down enough, or at least convinced himself that he is emotionally placid enough to take on the rest of the day, he heads back inside to join the family again.

People smile and nod at him as he passes, not acknowledging what happened minutes ago. Maybe they think he’s made peace with the idea of losing forever or something. After all, he tries his best not to let anyone see how much it bothers him.

He tries his best not to let it bother _him_ (he’s said that before, hasn’t he?). But he just… he just wants to win once. Wants to know what it’s like, victory and happiness coursing through him after working hard for it. Wants something he can be proud of. Something that gives him confidence about himself in front of others. Something that gives him assurance that he isn’t a mere waste of space.

It’s never been a person before. He’s been disturbingly unlucky in love. Has he always been so miserable that no one would want to be with him? Even stupid little mortals would reject him. And the one guy who liked him back was accidentally killed by Louis himself (so sorry, Hyacinthus). (What even were those days, man?)

So, Louis decided it could be his skills. The power of prophecy, as it turned out, was more dangerous than rewarding. Most mortals couldn’t be trusted with such genius, simply because they were idiots who didn’t know how to use it correctly. His musical skills were questioned more than once, then taken for granted. He cherishes it still, something he keeps mostly for himself, but the world forgot about it as it evolved.

Archery, however, was still beloved as ever. He was the god of the art, he was so sure it would be what he could be smug about. When he first lost to Nova, he’d genuinely laughed, hugged her tight and joked about him teaching her right. But he’d gone home and actually practised before their next contest. It was more like over-practising and that clearly didn’t pay off. 

Soon, he stopped practising. He hopes he soon stops hoping, too.

He grabs a glass of nectar from a nymph hurrying past and tries to disappear into the crowd. But with the poker face he’s trying to maintain and with no one to keep him company, he’s sure he sticks out like a sore thumb.

No wonder his personal pest finds him within minutes.

“Louis!” Harry exclaims, grin in place. His cheery attitude harshly pokes Louis’ sensitive being. “You were great out there.”

Louis scoffs. “Go away, Harry. I’m not in the mood.”

Harry follows him as he searches for the most deserted corner to sulk in. “You’re never in the mood, baby. I’m very close to taking it personally, you know?”

Louis shoots him an irritated glance but doesn’t reply. When will he stop making everything about himself? Why can’t he give him his space? 

“Lou, it’s okay, yeah?” The wine god says, his tone hinting at sincere. But he changes it quickly, because clearly, he thinks humour can make anything better. “Do you remember you have a whole day of the week named after you? What more could you want?”

Unexpected for even himself, Louis flares up. “Well, Harry, if you had actual responsibilities and people had great expectations of you and you weren’t so immune to being a disaster, then maybe you would _understand!_ ”

If Louis wasn’t so blinded by his own emotions, he would’ve noticed the hurt flash across Harry’s face. He doesn’t though, and Harry has already painted on a smile. He shrugs. “Touché.”

Louis is breathing hard, staring at him, waiting for him to say something. Something else he could shout at him for. Anything. Harry doesn’t give him anything. Just stares back with his lips curved up in a tight smile.

When it becomes too much to bear, Louis looks away. His voice comes out weak when he says, “Get lost.”

Harry’s lips twitch, like he’s holding back a retort. Then he turns and leaves.

Hours later, when the sky is a dark glittery blanket over the earth, and the Olympians are witnessing the millionth evening draw to a close, huddled together under the canopy, and Louis is bored enough to spew poetry about the night and his family of all things, Harry comes to him bearing two glasses.

Louis watches as he sits on the chair next to Louis’ and places a glass of nectar in front of him. He doesn’t say anything. There’s a slight pout on his lips.

Guilt snakes up inside Louis. He knows he shouldn’t have shouted at him like he did (he basically called him useless; that’s _low_ ). It was his frustration with himself and Harry didn’t deserve any of it. Who’s he to dim the light and life of the party with his foul mood?

He sighs, twisting on his chair to face the boy. It’s not hard to muster sincerity. “Harry, I’m so sorry about what I said before.”

Harry looks up from his wine glass, looks at Louis from under his lashes. Doesn’t say anything, so Louis continues.

“I-I was very upset, and I know that’s no excuse, but like, I wasn’t at my best, yeah? And I’m just really sorry for shouting at you, specially since you were just trying to make me feel better. Will you forgive me, please?”

Never in a million years had he thought he’d have to apologise to this menace. The other way around was always how he imagined it. But here they are, and he means it.

A glint sparks in Harry’s eyes as he regards Louis. The pout slowly twists into that lopsided smile with one dimple. Harry also turns in his seat, now looking all business.

“I’ll accept your apology,” He says slowly, in that dramatic way he has. “On one condition.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, prompting him.

Harry slides his wine glass over to him. “Get drunk with me tonight.”

Now, it should be known that there are _reason(s)_ why Louis stays away from alcohol as much as he can. You might think alcohol wouldn’t affect the almighty gods like it affects mortals. Yeah, it doesn’t, and that’s why Harry indulges in some _strong_ stuff. Louis doesn’t like to be reminded, but he’s a bit of a lightweight. He does not want to celebrate his defeat with a hangover.

He also doesn’t want to lose control of himself because that might lead to him doing some stupid stuff like ki— NO.

That’s exactly why it’s not happening.

Nope. 

Louis laughs awkwardly. “You know I don’t drink, Harry.”

“I know, and I don’t understand why.” Harry is set on this, Louis can see it in the way he’s sat. “C’mon Lou, just a few drinks with me, please?”

“I’m— no, I’m sorry, but I can’t—”

“Louis,” His voice is stern this time, like a mother done with her child’s frolics. “Do you want me to forgive you or not?”

The sun god is about to make some excuse or the other when he notices the amusement leaking through from Harry’s act. He’s just teasing him. He’s always teasing him.

Louis sighs. Harry won’t really force him to drink, he’s better than that. And he brought him nectar without Louis ever asking for it (thoughtful, isn’t he). Also, he’s back to his joking self, so that must mean he’s forgiven him.

That’s such a relief to Louis, his mood lightens by a record-breaking 20 percent.

“Of course I want you to forgive me, dear Harold,” Apparently he’s feeling so much better that he’s calling Harry nicknames now. He kind of misses his upset. He picks up his glass of nectar and stands as a cover up. “But that is a price I’m unable to pay.”

Bantering, are they, now?

Such dangerous territory.

“That’s such bullshit.” Harry gets up and follows. Like always. “I know you can. I believe in you, mikrí mou agápi.” 

Louis’ face only heats up because he’s annoyed by being called that (it’s _not_ blush). He’s not little and he’s not Harry’s love (hmm).

For a good few minutes, Louis wanders through the crowd with Harry following him, much like earlier in the day. But this time, Louis isn’t trying to lose him, not really. This time, he is not that irritated by his presence. Harry makes good banter, if you can bear him. 

The next time Louis glances back at Harry, he hopes he doesn’t have that silly look on his face that he gets every time he tries to hold back a smile. “For Zeus’ sake, leave me _alone_!”

“Oh, but Louis, my world _revolves_ around you.” Harry grins at him smugly, like he actually did something.

“One more Sun related pun, Harry, and I’m going to puncture you with my arrows, and I swear on Styx I won’t miss a single shot.”

Harry pauses and looks very surprised at Louis’ self-mockery. He merely studies him for a while, like he is seeing Louis for the first time.

Louis is about to tell him off for it, inform him he is capable of humour, when a glass clinks and Hermes calls for everyone’s attention.

They, along with everyone else, turn to where Hermes is standing with a glass in hand and a sly smile that leaves Louis apprehensive.

When enough silence has settled, Hermes starts speaking. “First of all, I would like to thank everyone present for taking time to be here and celebrate us as a family.”

There are a few snickers and some scoffs. Louis rolls his eyes. When will the gods accept that they’re not as important as they used to be and thus, essentially _free_? That they’re not the perfect, loving family Hera likes to say they are?

By modern society’s standards, they’re messed up beings. If the gods were ever put on trial in the modern world, every single one of them would be in jail.

“I hope that all of you enjoyed the day.” Hermes continues without a hitch. “But in case you didn’t, I have a suggestion to make.”

He looks around, gauging the reactions of the crowd. He must deem continuing safe, so he does. “For the next get-together, we should try something new. I was wondering if it would be possible for some of our dear minor gods to organise a drama, a musical play of sorts…”

Hermes trails off, once again giving his audience time to process his idea.

Louis frowns. Yeah, he gets it, they’re all bored of watching him lose to Nova. He himself is half bored, and half something beyond embarrassed. If this play can take off everyone’s attention from that stupid competition… wow, Hermes. You genius.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea!” Aphrodite pipes up. Ares grunts in what has to be approval.

Poseidon nods and Chiron mutters something in agreement too. Then, there’s a general murmur of assent among the Twelve. Louis catches some minor gods trading uncertain looks. If only the gods were a democratic institution.

“Yeah? You guys like it?” Hermes grins wide, like someone receiving appreciation for the first time.

“Yes, Hermes, you gave an excellent idea.” Athena jeers. “Now get to the logistics of it.”

Hermes hesitates. “Well, I hadn’t thought that fa—” 

“Where’s it gonna be performed?” Athena fires. “Who’s gonna—”

“How about one of our old amphitheatres?” Priapus proposes. Then cowers under the sudden attention. For someone so blessed in the size department (more like cursed, but you get the gist), Priapus is uncharacteristically timid.

“Yeah, that works.” Hermes agrees.

“Who’s gonna act in it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we’ll need an audition—”

It doesn’t seem like Athena’s questions would stop. “And who’s gonna take those auditions?”

“Who better than the god of theatre, Harry?” Hermes turns to him with a hopeful smile.

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, sure. I’d love to.”

Hermes gives a cheer and pulls him to the centre of attention with him. Harry goes with an easy laugh.

“You think he can organise an entire drama by himself? Do you—”

“It’s gonna be a musical play, right?” Hermes looks a little like a maniac with how well his plan is shaping up. “Well, I say it would be a shame if Louis and the Muses didn’t help bring it all together!”

There is already humming and muttering in consent before Louis even has a chance to widen his eyes. Even Athena seems placated. Within a minute, everyone except Louis has seconded the idea, Harry is smirking at him from Hermes’ side and Zeus’ official announcement of the play leaves no room for negotiation.

Hermes, you absolute genius. (Louis’ learned what’s called ‘sarcasm’ from the mortals. It’s his favourite thing in the whole world.) 

Perhaps for the first time since these get-togethers started, Louis’ days pass by in disquiet instead of the usual worthlessness.

The first week he had all to himself. Before, he used to spend it thinking about his degrading archery skills and entertain himself with scenarios of people talking about him behind his back. Now, with something bigger, something potentially more mortifying looming ahead of him, his brain decided to latch on to that.

And Louis takes to imagining every horrible thing he could do to Hermes. You see, Hermes and Louis go way back, to the time when Hermes, essentially an infant, stole Louis’ cattle and sacrificed them to the gods. But then he made Louis his lyre as compensation, so it was all good. Now he’s set Louis up for this dumb play, and Louis expects to be handsomely recompensed, or else... 

The second week was when Harry and the minor gods had decided to meet up and figure something out for the play. Before, it passed thinking lowly of himself some more, though not as frequently as the first week. Now, it found Louis on the stage of the Herodian amphitheatre, back in Greece, arguing with Harry over the genre of the play. 

“It has to be something meaningful! Something heartfelt!” Louis gesticulates wildly with his hands, a habit of his when he’s feeling exceptionally passionate about something. Harry dramatically rolls his head along with his actions. Louis huffs and crosses his arms. “You’re not turning this play into Who-Has-The-Worst-Jokes-Ever competition! I won’t let you!”

“Harry would win that any day.” Priapus mumbles to Nike, but his voice carries and everyone chuckles. Except Louis. Louis channels his inner fury glares at him hard enough to make him – very satisfactorily – cower.

“Why, thank you for the vote of confidence, Priapus!” Harry beams.

“Can we _please_ focus _?_ ” Louis seethes, turning his glare to the curly bastard.

“Yeah, Priapus, it’s no time to joke around.” Harry scolds. There’s a joint, hushed snicker. Harry makes a show of shushing them, though there’s mirth positively dancing in those eyes of his.

Finally, Harry turns to address him directly, starting to walk to him. “Sensitive? Heartfelt? No offence but some people here are already unnecessarily sensitive as it is.”

Was that… was that a jab at him? Louis feels his face flushing and his heart bordering on hurt.

But if it wasn’t… wow, Louis does fall in that category, doesn’t he.

“That’s exactly what these people don’t need. They need something light and jolly.” Harry continues his philosophy, advancing toward him. When he reaches him, he clutches his shoulders in his freaky big hands and squeezes (gently, Louis does not want to like how it feels). In a low voice, he adds, words just for Louis to hear, “ _You_ need something light and jolly.”

Louis gulps. Sometimes he wonders if he’s made of glass and crystals and every thought and every feeling that passes through his head is available for anyone to read. It’s a scary visual.

As much as he hates his brain, he’s weirdly protective over it. It’s his personal hell _and_ his safe space, so.

So, he gulps down the uncomfortable feeling of being exposed, tilts his chin up, defiant. “And why do you get to decide that?” 

Harry’s perfect lips twitch. Louis can almost watch it in his eyes as he decides to change tactics.

He abruptly turns away from Louis, turns to face the little assemblage around them. “All right, my dear friends. We’ve stumbled upon a slight disagreement, and who better than all of you, delegates, can resolve this problem?”

There’s apprehension on everybody’s face, people confusedly glancing at each other even as they chuckle to show that they really understand what Harry’s talking about.

But Louis _knows._ That… that shrewd weasel!

He knows Louis won’t give up without a fight. He also knows which weapon to use. Louis might not be downright ridiculed, but he isn’t exactly the golden boy among this crowd (pun very, _very_ unintended. What in the damned Hades, Harry, get _out_ of his head!)

That’s actually Harry. The beloved one of the flock. The apple of their eyes. By some twisted irony, the darling sunbeam in their peculiar little clan.

And he’s gonna use it to his full advantage. Acclamation by adoration or whatever.

Son of a bloody vixen.

Louis can’t do anything but stand and watch as Harry grins winningly at the crowd and asks them to decide for themselves what genre they would like. He adds phrases like ‘ _it’s your play, after all’_ and _‘why should Harry or Louis get to decide that?’_

Harry glances back at Louis for a second, just to send a smirk his way. Louis thinks he should probably visit Earth more, even if just to learn this dirty little political game Harry’s playing.

There is shuffling and mumbling. Everyone is taking this seriously and Louis can only roll his eyes at Harry’s antics. He cannot, for the life of him, call this ‘election’ off. No, sir. That would mean Louis doubting his own belovedness. That’s not happening in a million years, no, thank you.

It’s a slow, laboured process, but finally the gods seem to have made up their minds. Majority of votes fall into Harry’s bag, which comes as no surprise to no one. There are a few votes for Louis too, though, and then some still undecided ones. (Nemesis, ever the eccentric, suggests they pick something Shakespearean, something tragic and wicked in its roots. No one seconds her.)

 _Failure, failure, failure,_ chants voice inside his head. _Shut uuppp,_ replies Louis.

“So the judges, fair and just, have spoken!” Harry declares to the empty amphitheatre, amplifying his voice just to be a twit. “The genre is decided. Sitcom, it is!”

For a second, Louis is at a loss as to what sitcom means exactly. _Situation comedy,_ supplies the part of Louis’ brain which stores useless information. Huh. Little pea-brained mortals. 

Considering the meeting over, or his part in it at least, since Harry’s obviously got everything nicely under control, Louis turns to find a secluded spot to spend the day with his thoughts cum demons instead.

But apparently the green-eyed god has other ideas, because he’s quick to jog up to him to stop him. “Hey. Where are you going?”

“Away.” Louis snarls. “You clearly don’t need me here anymore.”

Harry frowns exaggeratedly. “Heyyy, that’s not true, Phoebus. I _always_ need you.”

There’s so much faux sincerity in his voice and his expression, Louis kind of wants to smack his face. He’s above that, though, so he lets out his frustrations with a deep exhale. “Stop wasting my time, Harry, and yours. I think your little fan base is missing you. Shoo.”

Harry just grins amusedly and takes one of Louis’ wrists in his hand. “Come help me choose the play.”

Louis huffs but lets himself be dragged to wherever. He’s done fighting. “Like I helped you choose the genre?”

A radiant smile, a perfect set of teeth. “Opposition is the very breath and soul of democracy, Louis.”

Through another tiring session the play that was settled on is called ‘The Dear Departed’ by one Stanley Houghton.

There are a few among them who have read it and have only good things to say about it. When the plot is explained, it is deemed simple and comic enough for their requirement.

There’s a tiny problem, though, and it comes in the form of limited characters. In total, there are just six character in the play. There are over a dozen of them.

Louis can feel the competitive tension that’s suddenly filling the air. It’s a stupid play for the rest of their stupid family and he can’t believe these people are so eager for it.

Maybe Hermes was right. The gods are all bored out of their magnificent minds.

The motherland, the eternal witness to their former glory, is probably laughing to herself at what’s become of them. He almost laughs along with her. It is pathetic.

Also, Harry is not quite satisfied with the play. Which, somehow, is the bigger concern.

“But a simple enactment of the drama would be too dull, don’t you think?” Harry wonders aloud.

They’re sitting next to each other on the steps of the stage while the rest of the team is distributed over the tiered seats. Louis is uninterestedly drawing in the dirt with the tips of his shoes. Harry is so damn invested in this.

“We ourselves chose a drama that’s simple, Harry. Now you don’t want simple?” Eros queries.

“I do want simple, Eros. But I don’t want bland.” Harry sighs, placing his hands behind himself and leaning back. Louis isn’t looking at him, but the image of his face glowing under the sunlight is crystal clear in his mind. He’s ridiculously healthy for someone who lives off liquor. “The drama should be engaging, but at the same time, not too hard to follow.”

“I don’t think I get you.” Boreas speaks in an unsure voice.

“He means that the human drama is bloody boring.” Louis thinks he did a pretty good job of summing up the last fifteen minutes of Harry droning about what he would like the drama to be like.

Harry rolls his eyes, mumbling, “That’s not what I mean, at all.”

Louis snorts at a sudden thought. “It’d be far more hilarious if it was Hera or Aphrodite instead of Elizabeth or Amelia.” He positively chuckles then. “Or Zeus in the grandfather’s place. Holy smokes.”

“Oh my god, Louis!” Harry cries suddenly, startling everyone.

He looks up to him with an annoyed expression set on his face and a spiteful remark ready on the tip of his tongue, but then he takes in Harry’s face. He’s looking at Louis like he just unravelled the most convoluted mysteries of the universe.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harry shakes in head in wonder. “Wow, Lou, just wow.”

“Stop looking at me like that.” Louis — because he’s a diva and what about it? — shifts away from Harry like his gaze is a contaminant.

Harry still has stars in his eyes. “It’d be fucking brilliant.”

“Yes, it would be, if you stopped staring.”

Harry laughs delightedly and then hurries to stand up. Ignoring all of Louis’ protests, he pulls him to his feet too.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.” Harry hollers, even though everyone is already looking at him. Louis thinks he just likes to remind everyone exactly why he’s the god of theatre. He’s just amazing at being a melodramatic cat, the best in his field.

Unlike Louis.

Louis shakes the thought out of his head, diverting his attention to Harry. He is, if nothing else, a good distraction from his own mind.

“We have found a very unique and very interesting way to make the drama more appealing.” Harry announces then grins at Louis. “All thanks to our wonderful friend, Louis, here.”

Louis scrunches up his face in confusion (not to hide his blush, obviously. What’s blush? He doesn’t know a blush). He has no idea what Harry’s on about.

Harry turns back to the crowd. With pauses in his speech for extra suspense, he declares, “We are going to perform ‘The Dear Departed’ with a twist. We are going to present ‘The Dear Departed: The Olympic Version.”

There’s a glint in his eyes as he speaks.

Uh-oh.

The next time they meet, it’s to choose the cast. Their basic idea is to switch the characters in the play with some of the major gods without changing the plot too drastically. It’s an amusing affair, watching the minor gods trying to imitate the Twelve. With an excuse to mock the gods and an unspoken agreement not to tattletale on anyone, they are pretty much ruthless. Priapus’ Ares is what makes everyone laugh the most and wins him the role. 

Harry is shouting, “ _That’s my son!”_ at the top of his lungs and Louis thinks his eyes would one day quit their job because of how much he rolls them.

By the end of the day, they have decided to cast Pan as Zeus (the grandfather), Priapus as Ares (Henry), Nike as Aphrodite (Amelia), Eros as Hephaestus (Ben), Hecate as Athena (Elizabeth) and Hestia as Nova (Victoria). Everyone else automatically becomes a part of the props team.

There are some disappointed faces, some relieved and some pleased ones. There are no disputes, though, and Louis thinks that’s the best they could ever do.

They part with high spirits and a promise to meet again in a couple of days. 

“Mustard, Ares!” Pan yelled.

Everyone burst out laughing.

The practices of the play are going wonderfully well, and coming from Louis, it’s something. He is, very surprisingly, enjoying himself. Laughing along with the group, being unusually silly and making jokes.

They’ve been rehearsing for three days now. No one has their dialogues by heart yet, but they’ve read and reread the script enough times to insert their own jokes into it. Naturally, the process is very hilarious, and a lot of times they’re laughing even though the jokes aren’t that funny. Eros has taken it upon himself to start dancing with the Muses whenever he can, and then he makes just about everyone join him. Sometimes everyone gets so distracted in the merriness that Louis has to remind them that they have a job to do. They’re listening to him, at least for now. And Louis is trying not to be too hard on them. Or himself.

Because he’s _enjoying himself_. The rarity of it is not lost on him. Neither on Harry, it seems, because every time Louis laughs, he’s met with an amused gaze that says, ‘ _told you_ ’.

Okay, yeah, whatever.

Maybe he did need this. He’ll have to come up with a thank you speech for Harry. But not too deep or anything, nothing to boost his overinflated ego. He’s smug enough for all the Twelve Olympians as it is. 

There’s a tap on his right shoulder, pulling him back to present. He turns right, expecting Priapus asking for help or the Muses calling him back for practice, but finds no one. He frowns, turns to his left and almost bumps into Harry.

He’s a millisecond away from reprimanding him for his stupid trick (which Louis stupidly fell for) when Harry grabs his forearm in a delicate grip.

Louis glances down at his hand, then arches a brow at Harry curiously. The menace in question flashes him a dashing smile, starts backing away. His hand travels down Louis’ arm with every step, until his long, ringed fingers are wrapped around Louis’ palm.

“You’re welcome.” Harry winks at him, squeezes his hand, then walks off.

Louis’ arm hangs limply on his side. Harry’s touch almost set his arm aflame. Reminded him that his skin does have the ability to tingle in a good way.

He feels disconcerted. Inebriated. The world’s dissolving.

With a shaky inhale and a shakier exhale, the moment passes. Louis drops his gaze to the ground, crosses his arms. Gives his dumb body time to recover from something that shouldn’t even have affected him this way.

Maybe he is made up of transparent material, after all. Or maybe it’s just that Harry can read him—

No.

This just means he’s just been saved a conversation with Harry, is all.

Obviously. It’s nothing much. He straightens determinedly, ignoring the urges of cradling his arm like it’s something precious and others of scratching the ghost of Harry’s touch away. _Act normal, Louis._

Well, that’s something he’s been doing for quite some time now.

_But whose heart would not take flight?_

_Betray the moon as acolyte_

_On first and fierce affirming sight_

_Of sunlight, sunlight, sunlight_

A week into rehearsals and a week before the next get-together, Harry mysteriously doesn’t show up.

It’s very disadvantageous to the play. Even though everybody mostly knows what to do by now, it’s an extremely ill-timed move on Harry’s part. How irresponsible could he be? Did he think Louis could handle this circus alone? Without a prior warning?

The whole day, Louis is as tightly strung as any string on his lyre. He tries not to snap at people asking where Harry was, why he didn’t come. As if he knew. He tries to run everything as smoothly as Harry does, tries to look like he knows what he’s doing. He tries not to fail these people, his people, and tries not to get completely crushed under the pressure.

He tries not to miss Harry more than professionally necessary. Scratch that, he does not miss Harry, okay?

Therefore, he also won’t admit that everything seems dull without Harry.

But he will have a word about responsibility with the stupid boy when he gets back.

And that’s exactly what he does.

“Where in the whole bloody world were you yesterday?!”

Harry has barely entered the amphitheatre the next day when Louis starts shouting at him. He doesn’t even stop to ogle him for a moment. His brain hasn’t even registered how fabulous he looks in a plain white shirt and a pair of floral print trousers when he starts shouting.

Harry startles a little, but quickly schools his features into something infuriatingly calm and teasing. “Aww, Lou. Did you miss me? You see, we’ve been hanging out together so much that I got sunburns, so I—”

“Shut _up_!” Louis storms toward him. “Do you not have any sense of duty? We could’ve lost an entire day of rehearsals. Just because your drunk arse decided it was more important to get wasted somewhere than coming here. You do realise that these people are counting on you and your guidance—”

“Oh my god, Louis. _Louis._ ” Harry grabs his shoulders and squeezes to soothe him. “Calm down, love. It’s not that big of a deal. And I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Not that bi—” Louis stares at him incredulously. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You didn’t show up, no one knew where you were or how long you’d be gone for. Everybody was asking _me_ about you. Suddenly I had so much responsibility, I didn’t think I was gonna—”

Maybe Louis looks a little deranged because Harry’s eyes widen in earnest. “Louis. Lou, it’s okay. I left them in your more than capable hands. And no one died while I was gone, right?”

 _I thought I was going to_ , Louis doesn’t say out loud. Just scoffs and shrugs Harry’s hands off him. “We only have a week left. If you even think about pulling another stunt like this—”

Harry puts up his hands in surrender. “I won’t. I promise, I— ow!”

He covers his chest with a hand and a wooden stick, which apparently flew in out of nowhere, clatters to the ground. It takes Louis a moment to realise that the stick must have hit Harry.

“What the—” He picks it up and examines it. It’s not pointed, but he still checks on Harry. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Harry mumbles, rubbing his chest. “I think I’m fine…”

He looks up at Louis and trails off.

Louis looks around, searching for the culprit. He spots Eros with a bow in hand and a sheepish smile on his face. Hecate is giggling beside him.

“What the hell, Eros?” Louis yells, spending his last bits of anger. “It’s not your bloody playground. Someone could’ve got hurt!”

“Sorry, man. But my arrows don’t hurt people, you know.” Eros says as an excuse. He’s watching Harry, a little too intently. “You’re okay, aren’t you, Harry?”

When Harry doesn’t respond, Louis turns to look at him and finds him still gazing at him.

He pokes Harry’s cheek with the arrow, making him turn his attention to Eros. “He asked you something.”

The wine god shudders and tells Eros he’s fine, though even now he looks a bit out of it to Louis.

Harry gives a small chuckle when he notices Louis watching him. “Stupid Cupid.”

Louis gives him a disgusted look in return. “Wow, that’s a whole new low for you.”

And that’s that.

Louis is not sure what just happened, but he can’t be bothered to care because they have a bloody drama to prepare.

He’s practising a particularly hard transition with the Muses and he can feel Eros watching him. It’s been quite a few minutes and it’s getting annoying now.

“Okay, what?” Louis finally snaps in his direction.

Eros grins and hops over to him, his dialogues in his hand that he was pretending to read. “Hi Louis. How are you?”

Louis stares at him skeptically. Since when did they ask each other how they were doing? “Do you need something?”

“No, I mean,” His grin widens and Louis doesn’t like it one bit. “Really just wanted to know how you were. How the rehearsals are going. If anything new happened…”

“What are you talking about? You know how the rehearsals are going, we’re rehearsing together.”

“No, no. I mean,” Eros licks his lips. “Anything outside of the play?”

Louis gives him a blank look.

“Hasn’t Harry talked to you yet?”

“Talked to me about what?”

Eros sighs and rolls up the papers in his hand. “Guess not, then. Nevermind.”

He goes to turn but Louis grabs his arm.

“Don’t ‘nevermind’ me. What would Harry want to talk to me about?” Louis’ isn’t curious because Harry is involved. He’s just naturally curious, you know. “And why do you wanna know?” He adds nevertheless. 

“It’s nothing, Louis. Probably doesn’t even matter.” Eros tries to ease out of Louis’ hold but he doesn’t let him.

“Spit it, Cupid. What did you do this time?” The trust Louis has in his family is obvious.

Eros watches Louis, contemplating. “You’d hate me.”

“Wouldn’t change anything, then.” 

The love god rolls his eyes. Then with a sheepish look, he says, “Remember how I hit Harry with an arrow a couple of days ago?”

“Yeah.”

Eros waits as if for Louis to catch up. And then Louis does. Then he wishes he hadn’t.

“You hit Harry with an arrow.” Louis whispers, like it’s something shameful and should not spread. “And now he…”

He doesn’t even want to think about the consequences. He can’t imagine.

Eros shrugs, confirming his fears. Louis freezes for a few seconds.

Then he groans loudly. “How could I not hate you, Eros, when you do stupid stuff like this?”

“It was an accident, Louis! I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

“Yeah? Was it an accident with Daphne too?” 

Daphne was an incredibly beautiful naiad in the olden times. Eros made Louis fall in love with her and made her hate Louis. Eros always says he did that because Louis was making fun of him and Louis has maintained Eros did it just because he was bored.

At this point, he doesn’t even remember. There are so many stories about them, told and retold and told again, that now it’s hard even for the gods to remember which version is the truth, which the mortals came up with and which started as a joke among them but stuck.

“You were mocking me!” Eros argues, like always.

“I did not! I was merely sitting there—”

“Why are we arguing over Daphne after all this time?” 

“Sure, let’s talk about the matter at hand. Why did you bring your bow here? Why did you use it? Why Harry of all the people? Why, Eros, why do you hate me?”

Maybe someone’s dramatic side is rubbing off on Louis. He’ll have to keep that in check.

“Oh, for Aphrodite’s sake, Louis.” Eros rolls his eyes. “I was just showing off to Hecate and accidentally hit Harry. It’s not as big of a deal as you’re making it.”

“I chased Daphne until she had to turn into a bloody tree!” Not his proudest moment, he’s well aware. “I know how big of a deal it is.”

“If the arrow had had any effect, Harry would’ve made a move on you by now.” Eros states, crossing his arms defensively.

What?

“What… what do you mean?” Louis doubts Eros’ arrows ever fail to work.

Eros smiles at him like he’s dealing with a naïve child. “I can’t make someone love someone else if they already do, can I?”

_What?_

“What?” Louis can’t breathe, can’t think now. It can’t be.

“I think Harry loves you. Has, for years.” Eros is enjoying this. “If he didn’t, he would’ve lost his mind trying to control himself. If he does, which is the more probable case, he must’ve merely felt a sudden rush of emotions when I hit him. All my arrow would be able to do would be intensify his feelings a little bit.”

Louis is in shock. And slightly in denial because _it can’t be_. He doesn’t respond.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t at least suspected.” Eros says, probably wondering why he was acting so strange.

“I…” He has no words. He can’t comprehend the possibility that Harry could be...

“Anyway,” Eros exclaims suddenly, starting to walk backwards. Perhaps he’s afraid Louis will strangle him as soon as he comes out of his stupor and he might be right. “I wasn’t supposed to interfere. I didn’t mean to, and I’m so sorry. Just… forget I said anything, yeah?”

You just can’t turn someone’s world upside down and then tell them to forget it.

Between constructing (weak) theory after (weaker) theory for why Eros could be wrong and Harry might not be in love with him and watching (cute) scenario after (cuter) scenario his brain cooks up of Harry being his lover, he doesn’t get much sleep that night.

The Fates must decide that four days before the get-together would be a nice time for Louis to have a breakdown.

It’s going… Louis wouldn’t say smoothly, because with the performance drawing close, anxiety surrounds them like the air, flows with the breeze. He doesn’t know if his expectations are suddenly higher or if the cast has forgotten how to act, but he finds himself frustrated, trying and failing not to yell at them.

The cast is not helping. Hecate suddenly has stage fear, Nike wouldn’t stop challenging Louis, and that old goat Pan just keeps going to use the loo every ten minutes and spends another ten in there.

Not to mention, he’s been comically awkward around Harry. It’s making things difficult for everyone. Everyone, please blame Eros.

Louis lets out a shaky breath. It’s all spinning out of control.

He closes his eyes for a bit, focuses on his breathing to recentre himself. Okay.

The next few minutes he watches the play from the sidelines. It’s going fine until Hecate messes up one word and then forgets her next line. The rest of the cast exchange displeasured glances. She buries her head in her hands, apologising profoundly, and excuses herself to the drink station.

He decides to check on her. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“Louis! Hey.” She looks up, her face flushed. “Uh, yeah, everything’s fine.” She runs her hand through her hair and Louis can tell she’s jittery. “It’s just… I don’t know how they’ll take it, you know. And I’m a little bit nervous… I don’t want to let you guys down.” 

“Hecate,” Louis clasps her shoulders. “No one’s gonna say anything to you, I’ll make sure of that. And you’re doing great, you really are. Why don’t you try it with a little more confidence? You’re Athena and—”

“Since when are you in-charge?” Nike asks from behind them. “We’ll take suggestions from someone who knows acting, Louis. Why don’t you go and play with your lyre for a bit?”

Blood rushes to his face. Normally he would snap back at Nike when she’s being a smart mouth. But now, even though he knows she’s just messing with him, he can’t find the strength to retort. Can’t help it when his heart gets a little wounded. He was on edge already, and though it was a weak push, he’s toppled over.

He merely rolls his eyes and backs away. He can hear Hecate chiding Nike as he blindly rushes to find a deserted place to be by himself until his wretched thoughts fade.

All he meant to do was to cheer up Hecate a bit. To help out as much as he can because, news flash, it’s also his play. But apparently people have problems with that too.

Why is he here again? He shouldn’t even have gotten involved. He could’ve just sat in his chariot in the no simulation environment and this wouldn’t have happened. 

He should’ve seen it coming. The last few weeks were incredibly, suspiciously great. He’s still in the clutches of something dark, even though it let him enjoy a few days. But he should’ve known better. The farther it lets him go, the closer it pulls him afterwards. He should’ve known.

 _He’s_ spinning out of control.

He finds himself outside the amphitheatre, the cool air stinging on his warm cheeks. He all but drops to the ground. His hands feel too hot, too cold and his palms are sweating. He can feel tingles running down his arms, his veins are flaring. He wants it to stop, wants to claw open his skin and tear into his muscle and just scratch until the weird itch goes away.

Instead he buries his face into his hands, presses his fingers into his eyes so hard he sees spots. When he’s convinced the tears have been sufficiently repressed, he moves his hands to his hair to hold the bangs away from his face. He’s careful not to grip too hard. There’s no need to. There’s no need to be upset, nothing happened, for crying out loud!

Then why is he upset? He is the problem, isn’t he? He has a problem, doesn’t he?

See, that’s how it always goes. He beats himself up for doing something wrong, then he thinks it wasn’t really his fault, it was the situation. Then he blames himself for making up excuses to bury his failures.

It’s a sickening cycle and he can’t find an out. It’s like an ever-oscillating pendulum and Louis is a ball that oscillates between self-hate and self-pity. He can’t seem to find the middle ground, the stable state called self-love, to settle on.

Louis is overthinking. He should stop, it’s exactly what he shouldn’t be doing. Normal people don’t overthink. He doesn’t want to overthink, he just wants to be normal — wait, now he’s overthinking about overthinking. Damn it damn it damn it.

He knows he didn’t always feel this way. All he wants is to know where he went wrong and how to change it.

“Louis?”

He startles. The last thing he wants now is company. Hearing footsteps approaching, he wipes his face free of signs of crying as much as he can. No one’s seeing him like this, ever.

“Lou?” A hand settles on his shoulder, gently turning him and bringing him face to face with a concerned Harry.

His frown deepens as he takes in Louis’ obviously dishevelled appearance. Louis shrinks a little under the scrutiny, crossing his arms. Harry doesn’t say anything, so he decides to get it over with as soon as possible. “What? Do you need anything?”

“What happened, sweetheart?” Harry gives him a question for a question.

“N-nothing happened, what do you mean?”

“Something obviously happened to disturb you so.”

Louis rolls his eyes like he normally would. “I’m okay, Harry. Let’s just go back and continue the practice.”

Harry is quiet for a moment. Then he says in a low, almost hurt tone, “Don’t do this to me again, Louis. Stop pushing me away when you need me the most.”

“I don’t _need_ you, Harry.” Louis grumbles, glaring at the ground. He’s doing that thing again, he’s making this about himself. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Harry scoffs. “I’ve spent centuries just watching you, I think I know a thing or two. You’re not as subtle as you think, darling.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. If he hasn’t been subtle enough, he’ll be more careful in the future. Can he leave him alone now, please?

Harry, naturally, has the exact opposite plan. He steps close to the other god, places his hands on his arms and rubs gently. Then he scoots even closer, tugs slightly, giving him all the time to protest but Louis doesn’t have the strength to, until they fall into an embrace. Harry wraps his arms around him and he lets out a shaky breath. Louis kind of leans against him, his face pressed against Harry’s shoulder, his arms crossed between their bodies.

He’s not supposed to trouble anyone else. He doesn’t want to. Specially not Harry.

“You can tell me if I’m wrong,” Harry begins, voice soft. “I’m gonna tell you what I think. Okay?”

Louis just closes his eyes. He doesn’t think he can handle other people’s opinions of him right now. Specially Harry’s.

“I think you’re wonderful.”

Louis can hear the smile in his words. _And the lie?_ asks his brain.

“You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re beautiful, you’re… you are so many things, Lou, I could just sit and admire you and never get bored.” Does Harry really think that? “But somehow, you don’t see yourself like that.”

Of course he doesn’t see himself like that. He knows himself, knows what he’s like inside and it’s not pretty. Just because he has a mask on doesn’t mean he’s a different person.

A lump grows in his throat and tears start to collect behind his lids again. He clutches Harry’s shirt in tight fists. 

“And I think you struggle sometimes,” Harry continues, squeezes him ever so slightly. “With what exactly, I can’t figure out. But you forget that it happens, happens to the best of us and that it’s okay. That everything is gonna be okay. You probably see the monsters bigger than they actually are.”

“Stop, please.” Louis whimpers, burying further into Harry. “I— I can’t, Harry—”

“Love, you need to hear this. You need to be reminded that it’s okay, yeah? You’re okay, even if you don’t feel okay right now.”

“I feel like I’m—” A sob finally breaks out of his mouth, and then there’s no stopping it. “I’m falling apart, Harry. I’m a m-mess. ”

“No, you’re not, Lou.” Harry pulls back and cups his face with one hand, thumbing away his tears. “You’re right here, with me, and you’re amazing, you know that? You’re perfect, baby.”

Louis mumbles some gibberish between his sobs and gasps, something about Harry lying. He’s not surprised when he doesn’t understand his broken sentences. So he gives up speaking, snuggles back against Harry.

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” Harry rubs his back, with a continuous stream of soothing words flowing from his mouth. Louis focuses on him instead, doing his best to ignore all thoughts of how not okay he is.

Minutes pass, or maybe years, but after a tedious fight with it, Louis at last sees the darkness retreating. He breathes in and out with Harry’s counts, sniffling grossly. He’s made a mess of Harry’s shirt, he’s sure.

“There you are, agápi mou.” Harry murmurs into his ear, cuddling him tight and swaying them gently.

Now that he’s calmed down and reality is seeping back into his senses, he notices things he didn’t before. Like how Harry smells sweet like wine and flowers up close. Like how warm he is and how cozy it feels to be cuddled against him. Like how tender and thoughtful Harry is. Like how he called him sweetheart and baby and _agápi mou_ and—

Crap.

Harry still hasn’t talked to him (if there _is_ something they need to talk about). Right now, Louis can’t have another crisis, nor can he take Harry being all nice and loving or so close to him. So, he slowly extracts himself from the hug. Harry lets him go, his hands falling to his sides.

“Are you feeling better now?” He asks, concern still present.

“Yeah,” Louis whispers, taking a moment to compose himself. “Yeah, I’m… better. Thank you, Harry.”

“Hey, none of that, now.” Harry smiles. Louis works up a small one in return.

They stand there in awkward silence for a minute, Harry still watching him intently. Louis doesn’t do much, just wonders how long Harry could stare at him without getting bored. Maybe he does get bored then because he takes out a small bottle from his pocket and offers it to Louis.

He eyes the dark red liquid inside it. “No, thanks.”

Harry shrugs, helping himself to some drink. His gaze fixes on Louis again. His tone is careful when he asks, “Do you want to talk about this?”

Louis’ eyes widen. Revisiting that mindset is dangerous, specially when he’s still sensitive like this.

“You don’t have to, though, you don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

Louis nods, his head hung. It’s such a good thing that Harry’s so understanding. He really appreciates him not being pushy. Honestly, he never thought he’d be so grateful to him, for him, but he is. 

“I’m sorry.”

Harry cocks his head to the side. “What for, darling?”

For what not. It feels like everything he’s ever done calls for an apology.

“I… I didn’t mean to run out of the rehearsal like that. Or break down like that, or-or ruin your cute shirt. I’m just sorry.”

“Lou, you have nothing to be sorry for.” Harry’s voice is soft, and it feels nice. “We can’t always control how we feel. We have to do deal with it. And you’re handling it great, you know, you’re so strong.”

“I’m not, really.” His voice breaks in the middle of his mumbled sentence. He can’t speak three words clearly and Harry’s calling him strong. 

“You might not believe me, darling, but it’s true. I’ve known people who couldn’t stand it. You’re not one of them, Phoebus. I know you’re fighting, and I know you’ll win.” Harry gives him a smile and turns so his side is facing Louis. “I know it’s not gonna make everything fine and dandy tomorrow. I’m saying this so that if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, and you don’t have anybody to call for help, you wouldn’t be alone. Even if it’s just words, I hope it’s something to hold on to when the world starts spinning too fast.” 

An anchor. He’d like that. He’d like that very much. He breathes out a yes.

“And don’t worry about the shirt. I’ve got cuter ones.” Harry winks at him as he sips his drink. Louis’ mouth twitches.

The world seems very quiet as it does after the wars inside his head, and he takes the chance to stare at Harry’s side profile for a long moment. He hadn’t expected this much wisdom from Athena herself. He didn’t know it’d feel this relieving to have someone support him and he didn’t know he needed it.

“Where did...” Louis trails off, and Harry turns to raise an eyebrow at him. “How’d you get so... wise and philosophical?”

He laughs nostalgically, like he remembered an inside joke. “Sometimes, Louis, the wisest men are found in bars, high as a kite and drunk as fuck. And sometimes on WhatsApp.”

“What’s a ‘WhatsApp’?”

Harry takes a swig from the bottle, then waves it around. “It’s, like, a messenger.”

“Like Hermes?”

Once again, he laughs, now with his head thrown back and a hand on his stomach, and actually stumbles a few steps with the force of his laughter. “Holy shit, I’m so using this on Hermes. I can’t wait to see his face. Thanks, Lou.”

“Uh, welcome?” Louis doesn’t understand a thing, but watching Harry laugh so loud that he has to wipe off tears makes his lips tug up in a small contaged smile.

His laughter dies down eventually, and he ends up staring at the stars decorating the violet twilight sky. His smile is still on and his dimples still out. He takes another swig, completely unbothered by Louis’ stare.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s a ‘fuck’?”

There’s two days left until the show. Louis is calm. Serene. Tranquil.

No, he really is.

He has been since the talk with Harry. He’s ignoring Nike and he’s not counting the number of times Pan takes a toilet break (17).

He’s calm even when Harry pulls him aside during their lunch break.

“What are you doing?” He asks, more curious than irritated, as Harry drags him outside the amphitheatre by his hand.

“I need to check something.” Harry says without turning back, his voice serious.

“Uh, okay. What?” Something about the play, surely?

“There’s this theory, yeah?” Harry turns to face him, his expression solemn. “I need to test if it’s really true or everyone’s just dumb.”

Louis is confused. Harry’s confusing, it’s nothing new. “Harry, what are you—”

“I’m gonna take you there now.” Harry tangles their fingers together and heat starts rising up Louis’ neck. “Do not let go of my hand, okay?”

“O-okay.”

Within a blink of an eye, their surroundings are completely changed. The sky is not as clear as back in Greece, the sun obstructed by a giant fluffy cloud. Instead of the hillside covered in trees, they now stand on a dirt path which Louis can see leads up to a barn, on plain land. They are in a farm.

“What are we doing in a farm?” Louis asks, painfully aware of Harry’s hand around his.

“It’s where we are going to test the hypothesis that,” Harry says seriously, as he places his hands on Louis’ shoulders and turns him around slowly. “Sunflowers always face and follow the sun.”

In front of Louis is a sunflower field. There’s wooden archway with the word ‘ENTRANCE’ painted on it in big yellow letters. There are rows and rows of plants growing close to each other, all of them about 4 feet tall. The plants look very healthy, the leaves are a bright green and the flowers are almost as big as his hand, all facing away, toward the sky, where the sun hangs. 

Louis opens his mouth to educate Harry that it’s already a proven fact and scold him for making another horrible joke and dragging him all the way here even though they’ve got so much work to do for the play, when—

When the flowers closest to them start turning around, ever so slowly. They twist their stems gently, keep twisting until, it seems like, their nonexistent gaze lands on the strangers. Then the flowers straighten a little, as if perking up because they like what they see. 

“Oh my god,” Harry whispers in his ear, slightly squeezing his shoulders. “Louis, did you see that?”

Louis only has time to let out a confused chuckle before the sunflowers, no doubt rustling into each other’s ears about their guests, are all twisting around on their stems to face them. Harry guides him forward a few steps, so they’re standing under the archway, with a sea of yellow faced spectators gazing at them.

“They do like to face the sun.” Harry says, something like awe in his voice.

“Wha—” Louis laughs a little, shaking his head and turning around to look at him. “What are you doing?”

Louis is confused. But he’s not stupid (at least not entirely). He knows Harry is the god of fertility and vegetation and stuff like that. A little trick with some plants is exactly something he could, and would, do.

“I’m testing a hypothesis.” Harry replies, not breaking character. “I’ve been wanting to, for a while now.”

Louis cannot keep the smile off his face. “And why are you doing this?”

“This is my kingdom, Louis, these plants, trees.” He explains with the patience of a teacher, gesturing around. “I think it is my duty to understand the fascinating phenomena that occur here.”

“You’re so full of crap.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“’M not!” Harry says decisively. “Now stop distracting me, I’m doing important research. Go and stand there, please.”

He points to the middle of the narrow path between the rows of plants. Louis frowns. “Why?”

“Stop asking questions, Louis, you have to trust your team leader.” Harry turns him around and nudges him forward. “Go.”

Louis rolls his eyes at his antics, but starts walking, sighing as he goes.

He admires the sunflowers as he walks, because that’s the normal thing to do, isn’t it? But what’s not normal is the way the flowers swivel with his steps, determined to keep him in their sight.

He bites back a grin. Then, because apparently he still has the intelligence of a four-year-old human child, he takes a few quick steps backwards. The flowers, like the obedient little things they are, twist with his steps too. A tiny laugh escapes him. He rushes forward, stops only when he reaches the point where the path splits into two.

There, he does a slow 360 turn. To his left, in front of him, to his right lies an ocean of gorgeous sunflowers, who seem to be looking up at him with genuine adoration and admiration (that might just be Louis’ glee making him hallucinate, but it makes him feel good, so he’s not gonna question it).

Just to test Harry, Louis runs around a bit — left, right all of sudden, an unexpected step left, then right again — until he forgets that it’s Harry playing along with him. He giggles as the flowers try to keep up with his movements, feeling like he’s playing with kids. He starts walking backwards up the main path, grinning widely at the blooms who’re still watching him curiously.

That probably wasn’t very smart of him, but he only realises that after he bumps right into Harry’s chest. Louis’ quick to move away.

“It’s true, Lou!” Harry beams at him. “Sunflowers always follow the sun. I think they’re my new favourite flowers.”

“You took this to a whole another level, Harold.” Louis snorts, caressing a flower’s petals. “Could’ve got your facts straight, at least. Last time I checked, only the young ones followed the sun. But I guess there wasn’t a god interfering then, so.”

“Maybe, but this sunflower would always follow the sun.”

Louis turns to find Harry crouching down, with his hands sticking out weirdly. He can’t help but laugh at the sight. “What? What are you doing?”

“Being a sunflower. That follows the sun all his life.” Harry says brightly, like it’s nothing, like it’s not going to keep Louis up at night, and proceeds to sway in the air like a plant. “I’m a sunflower!”

Louis bursts out laughing again. “You’re silly, is what you are.”

“ _But I’m a sunflower,_ ” Harry sings now, standing up and spreading out his arms. “ _A little funny. If I were a rose, maybe you’d pick me._ ” He performs a very clumsy pirouette and almost falls on Louis.

“Harry, stop.” Louis manages between giggles, hands instinctively darting out to help.

But Harry doesn’t listen, never listens to Louis. He just grins and starts skipping around Louis in a wide circle, his arms flailing about. “ _But I know you don’t have a clue_ , _this sunflower’s waiting for you, waiting for you._ ” 

He puts in all of his singing talent in the last words, and Louis thinks, not for the first time, Harry could utilise his voice much better. Musically, of course.

“Are you quite done?” Louis asks, trying to sound serious. He fails because Harry now has his arms stretched out like an aeroplane’s wings (he knows what they are, okay, he’s seen more of them than all of you combined) and is twirling around, bouncing to his own beat.

Something expands in his chest, grows with the warmth that’s kindled by watching Harry, and Louis can’t breathe properly.

Whatever it is inside him blossoms into a wide, wide smile. “Alright, you silly sunflower, take me back now.”

Harry beams back.

Naturally, Louis has a lot of trouble falling asleep that night.

Harry just wouldn’t leave him alone. Just like he promised.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. Harry, Harry, Harry. Harry.

If anyone asked him if he’s ever laid in bed wasting the night thinking about a gorgeous man and turning into a pile of silly, smiley, giggly goo, the answer would be a big fat ugly no. But between you and him, the answer is a blushing yes.

Harry is amazing. That’s a fact. Point to be noted here is that Louis is admitting that and agreeing. He’s the kind of person who always has a smile on. It’s so admirable but also kind of infuriating, because Louis wishes he had such happiness inside him too. He’s the kind of person everyone else is just drawn to, and he’s the kind of person who treats everyone with the same warmth.

Sometimes, it confused Louis a lot when Harry would flirt with him and then use the same voice on someone else. Louis is not the kind of person who’d be a notch in someone’s belt. So he’d resisted. He had watched people come and go from both of their lives, but Harry still flirted with him.

Harry’s the kind of person who supports. He’s the kind of person who people go to with their troubles. He always has something to offer — if not some helpful advice, then a glass of wine and hugs.

He’s the kind of person who doesn’t quit. Like, everyone had essentially given up on Louis, right? Styx, Louis had just about given up on himself. But Harry, that persistent mule, had not. Not yet. And there (hopefully) wasn’t an end in sight.

Louis used to take it negatively. He used to hate that Harry followed him everywhere. That once in a month he’d have to spend an entire day around him. He used to hate Harry’s unreal optimism, his idle rants and his smirks. He used to hate his company.

Somewhere along the way, his opinion of him changed.

Louis hadn’t even noticed when he’d grown fond of the boy. He didn’t know how much Harry, his feelings mattered to him until the day he hurt him. He’d felt bad after losing the competition again, but he’d felt worse after he shouted at Harry. He’d moped around for hours before they talked it through.

Harry isn’t half as bad. He’s funny (yes, Louis just said that). He’s boisterous but adapts himself to the atmosphere of the room. He’s sweet, kind, attentive and considerate. And he’s never tried to force himself on Louis. He makes sexual jokes all the time, yes, he’s had chances, of course, but he has always been respectful of Louis’ consent.

Who knows, he might be scared of making a move. Because, you know, Louis is no Ares or Hercules, but he likes to think he could take on Harry. (Remember, we _don’t_ talk about how tiny he is as compared to the other god.) Not that he would, though. If Harry ever does initiate something… Louis buries his grin into his pillow. 

In conclusion, he just sort of kind of likes Harry, okay?

Okay.

Now he can sleep.

_I had been lost to you, sunlight_

_And flew like a moth to you, sunlight_

_Oh sunlight_

They’ve wrapped up the final day of rehearsals and everyone’s decided to ‘go out’. Louis, of course, politely declined. He knows he’ll have trouble sleeping tonight, with the play tomorrow, and he’d rather focus on getting some rest.

He is currently standing on one of the middle section seats, overlooking the amphitheatre. His fingers drum a melody on the railing absently. He can’t believe he spent more than three weeks here, doing something he never thought he’d do. Lately, he’s been doing a lot of things he never thought he’d do, hasn’t he?

It’s pretty great that they did this, though. There may have been some less than pleasant events but overall, they’re all gonna take so much with them. So many fun memories, so many new experiences.

Yeah, he’s glad they did this.

And he can’t believe it’s over. It feels like a lifetime and it feels like just yesterday he was going over the dialogues for the first time and arguing with Harry about how he was gonna get them all disowned. Or when they lit a big fire and burnt offerings to each other, then danced around it. Hilarious, aren’t they?

Or the time when they put all of their best efforts to create something special. And they did.

He’s a little lost in his thoughts, so he doesn’t notice when Harry creeps up behind him.

“You’re not coming with us, are you, Lou?”

Louis startles a bit but relaxes as soon as he recognizes the voice. He doesn’t even bother turning around. “No.”

“Thought so.” There’s a sipping noise. “Oooh, is he smiling?”

Louis rolls his eyes, though his smile doesn’t dim one bit. Harry comes to lean on the railing beside him, facing his side. He places a wine glass on the railing, balancing it delicately by the stem.

“It’s done, can you believe it? Like, actually, 100% done.” Louis gushes, looking around the amphitheatre. “And I’m—” a disbelieving laugh “—I’m really happy with it.”

“And proud of yourself.” Harry adds, gaze burning Louis’ side profile.

At that though, Louis’ smile dampens. “W-wouldn’t go that far.”

Harry steps closer, resting his free hand on Louis’ shoulder. “But you should! You’ve worked your wonderful arse off on this, created a phenomenal play and you deserve to be proud.”

It’s like Harry’s hand is transferring heat into Louis’ body, distracting him from all the self-deprecating thoughts his brain is starting to attack him with. It’s flowing from the tips of his fingers and seeping into Louis’ skin, rekindling a fire deep in his chest. He can only manage a vague shrug past the fog collecting in his mind due to Harry’s thumb caressing his neck.

“You should also smile more often. Because, you know,” Harry leans even closer, so much closer that Louis can feel his warm, wine-sweetened breath on his fringe. He doesn’t dare look up because he’s already melting and looking at Harry’s face this _close_ right _now_ might actually cause him to _burn_ up— “It can outshine the Sun.”

For a second, there is silence because Louis can’t believe— He really did that— _What even_ —

Louis lets out a long-suffering groan and starts to back away. But then Harry’s laughing, his hand sliding down Louis’ spine to settle on the small of his back to keep him from moving too far away. The smaller man can’t help it when his lips tug up into a smile. His hands come up of their own accord to rest on Harry’s chest, a half-hearted attempt to keep some sort of distance between them.

“You’re horrible, Harry, absolutely horrible.” Louis (fake) complains as Harry laughs into his hair. “You have the worst sense of humour in the whole world and I hate it and I hate you—”

Harry laughs harder at that. The menace.

Louis pinches his nipple in retaliation. The hand holding the wine glass comes up to cover his abused chest and the glass most probably falls to the ground and breaks, not like either of them cares.

“I’m serious, you jerk, stop laughing.” Louis continues his rant and Harry continues watching him with an amused expression. “Way to ruin a perfectly good moment—”

“Would you rather have it any other way, darling?” He asks, eyes full of glee and voice smug. Louis feels both of his arms wrap more comfortably around his waist.

And does he plough the grape fields himself because holy Hera, those arms!

So you see, not his fault he practically turns into mush in Harry’s embrace. Or he blushes darker than cherry wine.

“Probably.” He whispers, because the moment calls for it, his eyes dancing from Harry’s own to his lush pink lips.

Harry is not any better though and that is a huge consolation to him. He’s almost continuously staring at Louis’ mouth. (He’s done that before and Louis has caught him doing it before but they both knew nothing was gonna come out of it but now — damn, they’re really doing this, aren’t they!) Louis can feel his heart thudding under his palm and that, more than anything else, assures him and stamps out any doubt he had about Harry’s authenticity.

Their foreheads press together gently. Harry nudges his nose with his own. It’s silly. But not silly enough to justify a laugh but Louis laughs anyway because his brain is malfunctioning because Harry’s so close because they are about to—

“You want this, right?” Harry says, pulling back an inch or two.

It takes a moment for Louis to process his words because he’s busy staring at Harry’s lips with everything he has in him and wondering just _why aren’t they on his own mouth yet?_ Even when he realises Harry’s said something, all he can manage is, “Huh?”

Harry’s lips tug up into a small smile. Louis is confused why he’s smiling, so he looks up into his eyes for answers. There he finds caution and sincerity and humility where there was lust and confidence and smugness moments ago. “I said, you want this too, right? Us, I mean.”

Louis frowns. They were about to kiss, k-i-s-s, and he wasn’t pushing Harry away. If that doesn’t give away that yes, Louis wants this too, then he doesn’t know what could. Before he can mouth how big of an honour and consensual yes it is that Harry gets to hold him close like this and (almost) kiss him, Harry is rambling on in a timid voice Louis’ never heard from him before.

“You know I’ve always wanted you, Louis, and I know you’ve never wanted me. I’ve never pressured you, never troubled you too much, hopefully. And I don’t wanna pressure you now. Tell me if you’re uncomfortable with any of this, I’ll stop, I swear.

“I know things have changed since Eros hit me, but they don’t have to. I wanted you before, but now I’ve been practically craving you. I can feel this... this nagging itch under my skin for you, but that-that’s just me. You can still hate me. I’ll respect your decision. The last thing I wanna do is upset you. I know it might not always seem that way, but I do care about you. More than you know and more than I could ever show you.”

Louis’ heart can’t take it anymore and bursts with affection. How the heck did he end up in this beautiful, beautiful boy’s arms with him saying all these beautiful things to him?

“But I do hope I get a chance to try. Because I want to take care of you. Because you deserve it. Because baby,” Harry pauses, looks even more intensely into Louis’ eyes. “You light up my world like nobody el—”

Louis makes a growling noise, leans up and presses their lips together.

Harry recovers from the initial shock within a second and starts kissing him back just as eagerly, though his lips keep spreading in a smile and laughter keeps huffing out in tiny bursts. One of his hands come up to cup Louis’ jaw, tilting his head and pressing that much closer. Louis wraps his arms around his neck, determined to kiss him senseless just so he forgets all of his stupid puns (among other things).

Soon enough, Harry loses all his mirth and intensifies the kiss by teasing Louis’ lips open with his tongue. Louis doesn’t give into him easily. So, obviously, Harry plays dirty. He slides his hands down and clasps his bum.

Louis gasps. There’s white noise inside his head. Might be his brain short circuiting.

Harry doesn’t miss a beat and jumps at the chance to take the lead. He kisses deeply into Louis’ mouth, putting so much desire and care into his actions that Louis can feel it against his tongue. Louis loses himself in the sensations, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair and gripping, probably too tightly. But it coaxes out a low groan from him, so he just takes note of it and guesses he’s fine.

Harry bites at Louis’ bottom lip and presses a kiss on the tingling spot before starting to kiss along his jaw and down his neck. He easily finds his sweet spot, just going by Louis’ reaction — a gasp and his head rolling to the side. A single tug of Harry’s hands presses their lower bodies together and there are explosions behind Louis’ eyes. At this rate, it can turn into something else entirely.

“Harry.” Louis can’t believe how breathless he sounds. “Harry, didn’t you… you had to go out.”

“Screw it.” Harry mumbles. “Nothing’s fun without you, anyway.”

See? It’s things like these that just… ugh. Louis doesn’t even know how to phrase it right. So much for being the god of poetry.

So he helplessly tugs at his hair again, guiding his mouth to his own and steering them away from dangerous territory while simultaneously not wanting to stop.

After a while of intensely making out, Harry slows down, pulls back for air and lets his head fall against Louis’. Louis just about pouts. If Harry’s kisses feel like this then he might just consider giving up breathing. Who needs air when you could have mind-blowing kisses instead?

“I can’t believe I kissed you first.” Louis murmurs, fake grumbling.

Harry chuckles. “I can’t believe you kissed me at all.”

Louis opens his eyes. Harry is grinning but Louis doesn’t quite find it funny. He doesn’t like self-deprecating humour when it’s coming from someone that deserves the world.

So, he tilts his head up, pecks Harry’s lips once. And then once again, a little bit longer, for good measure. Harry’s smile softens.

Louis steps back, and Harry’s arms loosen reluctantly. He goes to lean on the nearby wall, tugging Harry back in by his shirt. He comes easily.

Harry’s hands settle on his hips and Louis drapes his arms loosely over his shoulders. Now that he’s allowed them, his hands don’t want to lose contact with this boy. He plays with his hair, tilts his head, smiles at Harry who smiles back at him.

His eyes wander all over Harry’s face, trying to absorb as much of his beauty as they can — a very ambitious task. “I can’t believe I never kissed you before.”

“Yeah, I can’t believe you resisted me for that long.” Harry says with a smirk.

Louis rolls his eyes. He’s sure it comes off as fond. “Shut up, Harold, and kiss me.”

He needn’t be told twice. Louis pulls him closer.

Like Harry said, screw it.

He had planned to get sleep tonight. Harry single-handedly messed up his plans.

He can’t stop replaying their kiss(es) in his mind, can’t erase Harry’s smiling face from the backs of his eyelids, can’t stop his words from echoing in his head. It seems that thoughts of Harry are just are persistent as the man himself. So he gives up fighting and just lays there waiting for thoughts of Harry to turn into dreams about Harry.

The play, surprisingly, is a success. Either the gods aren’t as hard to please as Louis previously thought, or they did a bloody fantastic job.

Louis knew they were successful the moment he saw Zeus and Hera laughing. His body had sagged with relief. When the play had ended, the audience had erupted into applause and as Louis bowed on stage, one hand engulfed in Harry’s and the other clasped around Hecate’s, happiness of an unreal extent coursed through his veins.

He had been so high on that new-found ecstasy that he hadn’t even thought twice before jumping into Harry’s arms the moment they were backstage. Any embarrassment he could have felt was drowned in the sound of his and Harry’s laughter and the swarm of bodies that wrapped around them, turning their private embrace into a giant group hug.

Minutes later, they are mingling among their family, getting claps on their backs and riding out their adrenaline highs with drinks in hand.

He blames it on the giddiness in his belly that Louis finds himself giggling at some penis jokes about Ares that Harry and Priapus are currently making, talking about how they had wanted to use them in the play but thought better of it.

Yes, he’s actually laughing at something Harry said. Will miracles ever cease?

He’s about to add something to the foolery when Zeus approaches them. Priapus slinks away.

“My sons.” He starts. There’s something akin to pride in his eyes and Louis’ missed it being directed at him so much that he can barely control his grin.

“Father.” He says at the same time as Harry says “Zeus.” They sneak a glance at each other.

“I must say that I’m proud of you. You did a brilliant job, both of you.” Zeus places his hands on their shoulders. “We loved the play. Even though I don’t look half as ridiculous you made me look.”

Louis hides his smile behind his glass. Harry replies in a very serious tone, “No, of course not. You rock the suit. That was just exaggeration for comedic effect.”

It’s hard to tell if Zeus is appeased or not because of the distrustful gaze he sets on Harry. The curly boy, meanwhile, looks so innocent and sincere, Louis cannot control his giggle and he disguises it as a cough. 

“Anyway, I was thinking,” Zeus turns his attention on him. Louis straightens. “Seeing as this play has gone so wonderfully well, we should just make it a regular thing. What do you say?”

Louis freezes. What… does he say?

When Zeus asks something of you, it’s not really a question, more like a polite order. But does he even realise what he’s asking of Louis? Does he ever think about the lengths people have to go just to fulfil his wishes?

The play may have gone well, liked by everyone, but the process of bringing it all together was quite… intense. Louis has never felt an array of emotions this varied in such a short time. He did it, though, but the prospect of doing that all over again is daunting to say the least. But he also doesn’t want to say no to his father.

The silence stretches out for too long. Louis can feel two sets of eyes on him. He still doesn’t know what to do.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Harry pipes up then. “But I personally don’t think doing plays every month would be a good idea. For one, that would wear off the novelty of it. We don’t want to add to the list of the things we got bored of, do we? Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to the minor gods. They’re not here just for entertaining the Twelve. Unless you’re suggesting that the Twelve create a play, which I don’t think you are.”

Louis stares at him. He wonders how much gratitude his eyes are capable of expressing. Right now, he’s sure they’re pushing the limits.

Harry wraps an arm around him and smiles. “What do you think, Lou?”

 _You’re wonderful_ , is what Louis thinks. “Yeah,” is what he says.

Zeus watches them with a sour tilt to his mouth. “All right, then.” He sighs. Louis tries not to notice the disappointment in his voice. “I wish you the very best for the competitions, boys. And Louis, I hope you find some better company soon, son.”

Louis’ face is heating up. Zeus just did _not_. He just did _not_ insult the only person giving a damn about him. He just did _not_ ask him to stay away from the person steadying him when he went spiralling down the darkness.

Harry merely snorts into his glass. His eyes are cast downward, his lips forced up into a self-deprecating smile. Somehow, that hurts more.

Louis squares his shoulders and exhales. Levelling his gaze with his father’s, he speaks in a clear, defiant voice. “I’m sorry, Father, he’s the best I could do.”

The thing with Zeus is that he doesn’t know how to react to insults other than declare a war on the person who insulted him or zap them with lightening then and there (Louis has watched that happen, he always thought it was very cool. Not so much now). But right now, neither of those are appropriate. Louis doesn’t know if he offended him enough to get electrocuted, but he doesn’t care right now.

He watches as Zeus’ face grows red from reining in his anger, his blue eyes turning stormy. Thunder rumbles somewhere close by. Heads turn towards them. Louis stands there feeling rebellious. Harry is watching him, he knows, what he’ll think of this, he doesn’t know.

Finally, the King of the Gods huffs loudly, tilts his chin up and walks away. That was… easy? Louis gets suspicious; if something is too easy, you’re doing it wrong. He wonders if Zeus is going to spend the rest of the evening cooking up a punishment for him (with Hera, no doubt, she hates him) and pass his sentence at the end of the night in front of all the gods.

Louis clenches his jaw. Whatever. He. Doesn’t. Care.

Suddenly Harry laughs beside him. “That was awesome! I always knew you had it in you, Lou.”

Rolling his eyes, Louis takes a sip of his nectar. “Don’t you dare talk like that to me. I’m the fierce and mighty Apollo, twice-born. Fear me.” 

The wine god grins. “It’s an honour that you choose to accompany me, my lord. What did I ever do to earn your favouritism?”

Louis purses his lips and bows his head until he can control his stupidly wide smile again. It’s almost a mumble when he says, “Thank you.”

He peeks up at Harry from beneath his lashes to see if he heard him, if he understood him. Going by the way his grin has softened, Louis thinks he did.

“Can I kiss you?”

Louis’ head snaps up. “What?!”

Harry crowds his space, bringing up a hand to rest on Louis’ hip. “You’re amazing. I love you. I want to kiss you. Can I, please?”

Maybe Eros whistles. Maybe the dryads coo. Maybe everybody around them cheers. Louis would never know because once again, his brain and his body have decided to betray him. All he’s aware of is that Harry’s here (by here he means _three inches away_ ) and he wants to kiss him. He _loves_ him and he wants to kiss him. He thinks he’s _amazing_ and he _loves_ him and he wants to _kiss_ _him_. _In front of everyone._

Louis thinks Harry is absolutely shameless and awful for doing this to him. Louis hates him. He tells him so.

Then he stands on his tiptoes and presses his lips to Harry’s wine-stained ones, kisses him _hard_.

Harry stumbles back a step from the sudden attack, but he’s smiling into the kiss and wrapping his arms around Louis’ waist. He drapes his own arms around the taller man’s neck, careful not to spill his drink as he pulls this funnily-dressed, makes-bad-puns, always-drinking boy closer.

Everything else might as well not exist. The universe might just be Harry himself. And Louis just about loses himself in him.

Except that the bastard pulls back and starts smacking loud, wet, obnoxious kisses all over Louis’ face.

Louis guffaws and tries to get away, but it’s already been established that Harry is persistent. Louis squirms and protests and giggles helplessly, and his attacker goes as far as to dip him to reach him. As a last resort, Louis hides his face against Harry’s neck and only then do the kisses stop.

Harry smiles down at him and Louis smiles up at him, tucked nicely to his side. Harry’s smile widens and he raises his glass in a toast. “To Louis!”

Louis goes to stop him, but people around them are already echoing the sentiment and Louis is blushing and Harry looks so happy and Louis _feels so happy_.

No, miracles won’t ever cease.

Not a couple of hours later, he doesn’t feel so good.

With every sip of nectar, his elation had washed away. Now it’s late afternoon, less than half an hour till his archery final and he is, once again, a nervous mess.

He tries to summon some of his earlier confidence and calm, but it doesn’t work. His hands are sweating but his fingertips are cold. He can’t stop bouncing his legs, the only outlet he has for nervous energy.

It’s a different kind of pressure he feels today. The day has gone exceptionally well, and he does not want anything to ruin the streak. He does not want to go home thinking about the one thing that went wrong instead of everything that went right. He doesn’t trust his brain to help him with that, so he needs this to go right. Even just this once, please.

That’s how Harry finds him (he always finds him, doesn’t he?), sat on a secluded bench, lost in his thoughts. “Louis!”

Louis looks up, startled. “Harry? What are you doing here?”

“I got you something.” Harry grins as he crouches in front of him and produces a bottle of wine and two glasses from behind his back.

“What’s this? Are you trying to get me drunk right before the final?”

Harry chuckles, expertly working the opener. “I’m trying to de-stress you before the final because that’s what you need.”

The cork comes off without any protest. Harry beams up at him. Then darts in and steals a kiss.

“I think you’ll like it.” He says as he fills the glasses halfway with the beverage and Louis tries not to do something stupid like touch his lips. It’s not like he’s that deprived of affection (he is (no he isn’t, shut up, brain)). “It’s white wine, you know, from one of Italy’s best.”

“I’m not drinking that, Harry, at least not right now.” Louis has the sense to object. “I don’t want to end up hitting Hera.”

“Not a bad idea, you know?” Harry offers him one of the glasses. “C’mon Lou, take it.”

Louis hesitates, because he still has some rationale left. “I’m not sure about this…”

“Well, I am.” Harry shuffles to stand on his knees between Louis’ legs and places a warm, reassuring hand on Louis’ upper thigh. “Trust me, baby, please.”

Louis can hear the crowd buzzing, can feel the wild pounding of his heart, can see the spectacle that is Harry, soft curls and sparkling eyes and dimpled smile, between his legs. His brains shuts off.

He makes a choked off sound, still uncertain. Harry squeezes his thigh. “C’mon Phoebus, what have you got to lose?”

It’s his heart that decides that no, he hasn’t got anything to lose, except maybe the gorgeous glow that adorns Harry’s face, if he doesn’t please him now.

So he takes the glass from Harry, looks at him once more before finishing off the wine with three big gulps.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. That wasn’t bad. He really might have enjoyed it had he taken his time. He goes to tell Harry that, but—

Harry is watching him like he’s witnessing galaxies being created, but how is that possible when all of the stars already hang behind those wide green eyes of his?

Louis stills. “What?”

“God, you’re gorgeous.” Harry says on an exhale. Louis doesn’t think he realises he just made another pun. He’s about to inform him, but Harry beats him. “I love you so much.”

Louis’ breath hitches.

He doesn’t quite know what to do, still can’t wrap his head around what that entails. So he cups Harry’s face, leans down and kisses him.

Kisses him quiet so he stops saying things that make Louis’ heart malfunction. So he stops doing things that makes Louis blush even days later. So he stops being so bright, so beautiful that everything else fades around him.

Harry needs to be stopped, seriously. Or else Louis wouldn’t survive.

Harry readily kisses back, tilting his head for a better angle. His hands travel up and down Louis’ thighs once, before he wraps one around his hip and sets the other on the small of his back. Wrapping his legs around his torso, Louis kisses him till he’s the perfect level of high on Harry and the wine, and he’s found some words to give back to him.

“I always thought someone as gorgeous as you could never exist.” He whispers, keeping Harry close. “Or be mine, for that matter. But you were right there, in front me, teasing me like you always have. You were everything that I lacked, that I admired, and so much more. You were so much, Harry, I didn’t think I could do you justice.”

“No, sweetheart—”

Louis shushes him, brushing his thumb over his lips. “Let me get this out, please.”

Harry nods, pressing a kiss to his palm and magically making it tingle. Louis swallows.

“I didn’t realise this until recently, but I’m so glad you didn’t give up on me. I don’t mean to sound selfish here, but I really love it when I have your attention. I love it when you make me laugh and I love it when I can make you laugh. I love how you make me feel and I hope I can do that for you too because I think,” Louis pauses, makes sure Harry is paying attention. “I think I love you too.”

Harry’s face lights up by degrees and it’s transfixing like a daybreak. There’s something alluring in the way his eyes gleam, like how Aphrodite must look when she flexes her charm to entice men in, and Louis is a gullible prey, waiting for the sweet poison of his love to fill his veins.

“Lou,” Harry whispers, flinging forward and engulfing Louis’ smaller frame in a tight hug. “I love you. I love you a thousand times over and then some. I love you so, so much.”

“I love you, I love you,” Louis chants into his neck. He has to make up for centuries worth of it, so suck it up. “Love you.”

Harry breaks the hug to pull him into a kiss instead. Louis loves how he kisses him, soft and deep and… perfect. Harry’s so perfect.

They snog until all air has been sucked out of Louis’ lungs and they’re a tangle of bodies on the floor. Louis has no idea when that happened, but he’s straddling Harry’s lap, toes curled under Harry’s knees, arms wrapped around Harry’s torso and face buried into his chest. He feels a bit like a clingy koala, but Harry’s nose is buried in his hair and he’s being a koala right back (a naughty koala because his hand keeps skimming over his bum), so he’s not too embarrassed.

He doesn’t want this to end. But then he remembers it has to because he’s got a competition to finish. He sees only one way to make it through.

“Babe, can you please pass me that bottle?”

Harry looks surprised, at the term of endearment or the request, Louis doesn’t know. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I don’t… I don’t give a damn.”

Harry lets out a squawk of laughter. “Okay, okay.”

They end up finishing the bottle between themselves, though Harry doesn’t let Louis drink more the a few gulps. Louis had insisted that he could take it; Harry had agreed, kissed him quiet and hid the bottle. Then he helps him get ready for the match. It’s the least he can do, seeing as he’d distracted Louis and kept him in here with him for so long.

Louis’ body feels loose and his mind feels relaxed as he adjusts the quiver on his back and takes his bow that Harry passes him.

“Good luck, baby. You’re gonna do amazing, I know it.” Harry says, pulling out a cloth from his pocket. “I even got this for you.”

He unfurls the piece and it’s a flag. A yellow flag with a big sun embroidered on it.

What on earth?

“I tried making it myself but it’s too damn difficult, so I got it made. I hope you don’t mind. At any rate, I’ll be cheering hard for you today. You can expect some cheerleader moves too.”

Louis stares at it. Then at a beaming Harry. Then shakes his head and decides Harry’s gonna be Harry. He thanks him with a smile and a quick peck.

“What do the mortals say? Fuck it.” Louis rolls his neck. “ _Fuck it._ ”

Harry’s grin is borderline wild. “Yes! Fuck it up, Lou, go fuck it up!”

Louis swiftly leans up and takes one last kiss from him before heading out.

"You're late, bro."

"I know, I'm sorry."

"What were you doing?"

"Just... Harry." It doesn't occur to him to elaborate, he's too busy setting up and watching Harry take a seat from the corner of his eyes.

Nova blinks, a little surprised. She doesn’t even try to hide her grin. "O-okay."

Ares gives them the signal to start.

The moon goddess quickly shrugs off her astonishment. She gets into position, sets her aim and shoots. The arrow scores 10. Piece of cake.

“So,” Nova starts as she watches him nock his arrow. “Harry, huh?”

Louis breathes out and takes a few seconds to aim. He shoots and scores 9. He sighs, takes out his next arrow. A smile teases at his lips. “Yeah. Harry.”

He looks up only after Nova has taken a shot and scored 9.

“Finally, Louis.”

“What do you mean ‘finally’?” Breathe in, and out, and shoot. He gains 10 points.

Nova waits until the last second, but when she shoots, it’s another 10. “We’ve been waiting years for you to sort out that sexual tension. Thank goodness you’re shagging.”

Louis’ arrow almost slips out at her words. He still manages to get an 8. Then he turns to her to object, “Nova, it’s not like that!”

Louis readies his next arrow, only half of his attention on the game, the fact that his sister won the first set and the audience’s applause.

“It’s not?” Nova sounds really confused and a little bit disappointed. “You weren’t getting railed just before the match?”

“I-I wasn’t—” Louis sputters out nonsense. He’s not sure what ‘getting railed’ means exactly, but he’s sure it’s something filthy. He huffs, focuses on his shot instead. Bags a 10. “Whatever that means, that’s not the case.”

“Oh man.” She’s really disappointed. She shoots and scores a 10 too. “What were you doing then?”

“He just brought me some wine and we…” Louis lets his arrow fly and it gets him another 10. “We ended up kissing for a bit.”

“What?!” Nova lowers her bow and stares at him incredulously.

“What? Nova, take your shot.” Louis reminds her when she continues to merely gawk at him.

“People don’t just ‘end up kissing’, Louis.” She scoffs. Her shot earns her 9 more points. Then she stands with a hand on her hip. “Since when are you two ‘just kissing’? Why haven’t you told me yet?”

Louis holds back an eye roll until he’s shot his arrow. He gets a 10 again, and a total of 30. Bullseye. “It only happened yesterday, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Oh.” The Moon goddess shoots the last arrow of the second set, gains 9 points.

The set ends with both of them having 2 set points each. There are cheers from the crowd, but Louis doesn’t want to look up just yet.

“So you haven’t had any kind of sex yet?” She asks, starting the decider set by scoring a 9.

Louis feels blush rising to his cheeks. He reminds his brain he’s not a fourteen-year-old virgin. He shoots and gets 9 points too. “Why are you so interested, goddess of chastity?”

Nova shrugs. “You need a good lay.”

He should be offended, but laughter bubbles out of him. “Fuck off.”

She shoots and scores 9 again. Then she turns her teasing smirk to him. “I see you have expanded your vocab, baby bro. Did Harry teach you that?”

Louis bites back a grin. Steadies his hand, shoots and secures 10 points, while his twin wonders aloud whether Harry explained it to him or showed it to him.

“Shut up, Nova, and shoot your damn arrow.” He would’ve shoved her a little too, but he can’t because rules. Besides, what can he say? Harry did _explain_ it to him, and it’s a pretty useful word.

Nova just laughs, setting her last arrow. She fires, and it buries itself into the smallest circle. 10 points for the goddess.

She breathes out deeply, turns to him again. “Have you guys said the L-word yet?”

Louis is aiming his shot, but at her question, his body tingles and his gaze flutters up to the audience. He finds Harry easily, because that idiot is standing up, his hands fisted and lip bitten in anticipation. Within a second, Louis concentrates back on the match.

“Yeah.” He breathes out and lets go.

The arrow flies through the air and lands in the yellow circle.

10.

There’s dead silence. For a good five seconds.

Louis won. He _won_.

There’s dead silence in the arena, until a booming voice shatters it. “Attaboy, ilie mou!”

_He fucking won!_

Then the crowd bursts into cheers. All tension seeps out from his body, but in the most desirable way. His legs give out and he falls to his knees, laughing. He feels Nova’s arms wrap around him, her loud chortles in his ear overshadowing everything else. There’s a hand ruffling his hair, and one patting him on the back. There’s his sister congratulating him, there’s the boy who loves him cheering him and there is he himself, every cell of his body filled with pure ecstasy.

Louis grins up at Harry — who’s waving his ridiculous yellow sun flag and dancing — and under Harry’s warm gaze, he may or may not feel himself glowing.

_Oh, your love is sunlight_

_Oh, your love is sunlight_

_But it is sunlight_

_Sunlight, sunlight, sunlight, sunlight, sunlight_

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the following prompt:  
> Louis is Apollo and Harry is Dionysus. Louis can’t stand Harry’s chaotic, drunk and too much fun personality meanwhile Harry loves to rile up Louis who’s always serious and too focused on his music. Louis hates Harry, Harry lusts for Louis until he falls madly in love with him because Eros (cupid) shoots an arrow accidentally. It would be a funny fic with lot of sexual tension moments. Louis understands that he has deep feelings for the arrogant and party loving God after one day where Harry makes him feel less sad and shows his serious and vulnerable side to Louis. Happy ending!
> 
> I have modified it quite a bit, but hopefully it wasn't too bad.
> 
> The song snippets are from Hozier's Sunlight.
> 
> This fic has so much of me in it, I've lost count of how many times I cried writing this. But I realised that we all can be Harry to our Louis. I also realised it's fucking hard not to use 'fuck'. I want to rant more but I won't keep you guys. Go check out the other fics in the collection, if you haven't already! 
> 
> Have a nice day and treat people with fucking kindness. :)


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